affiduant visgauge

ohhh my god this has been in the pipes forEVER i guess i just liked the title syllables enough to keep it

Lora arrived in NLA on a stormy night somehow darker than any you might be imagining at the moment. She brought with her a taut caginess that eased slowly but steadily, like the sun brimming unfurled from behind a cloud yet remaining as its sworn shield.

She smiled at Elma, companionably, and listened to each briefing with alternate frowns and nods. As she came right to grips with just what their mission entailed, she clapped her hands in readiness, almost seeming to completely lack, or at the very least swiftly shed, any startup cruft from the booting of her mimeosome.

She was a mim, though - Elma had made sure of that. Back on Earth, she'd been in a coma, and eventually got a heart transplant from another woman who, quite obviously, hadn't made it to Mira. They were country dwellers, who deserved so many better reasons to visit the city than a hospital, and for that of all reasons.

Elma knew this. She'd bet a week's worth of miranium that Lora didn't. And that wasn't exactly the type of information reserved for a knower-and-noticer like the Colonel. This was the kind of thing she got her hopes up, every time, that the awakening amnesiacs would find their mind's way clear to remember.

The kind of thing you'd think, across universes, no one could ever forget.

But, then...

That's the thing about this planet, isn't it?

Lora's springy steps don't beat from Haze's heart. Her jumps, fitter than any other rook's at her special short range, don't follow from the knowledge of quiet knights bearing up behind her.

Elma had guessed that they'd have to forge all the way to Noctilum to get the material for what Lora was requesting: a battle braid - a whip, of sorts - with some beads knotted at either end for impact. Harnenga Cotton for the base, and maybe some Amana Durian hull, in thin strips, to give it heft. Beads made of Gluttonutan Clay, too.

The Collectopedia didn't officially sponsor a section for notes on possible entry uses, but Elma liked imagining what one might realistically, or unrealistically, do with each find all the same. Too, there was no BLADE division devoted to craftmanship or fabrication, even though the Outfitters caught creative types looking for some work at least a little closer to that type of engineering.

Looking at Lora, though, and how quickly she set upon Primordia's Zesian Fleawort for her weave, Elma decided Chausson would be looking at a slick fifteen minutes on his calendar about (one day) expanding the options available to those who chose the non-civilian life. Each knot and cross was made with such purpose (perhaps even some latent tenderness) that it was obvious even the best operatives needed an outlet like this.

"I'm surprised no one else has ever had a go with that training rope and decided to use one in the field," Lora commented as she hummed along. "To me, it felt just like I'd been working with it for years."

That kind of comfort, that pure self-assurance, definitely carried along with Lora's voice, spoken and hummed. It was the kind of confidence Elma almost couldn't doubt. Yet...

"Indigens have sharp teeth. If you were going out on any other team other than mine, without Lin taking the heat, I'd have vetoed this from the jump."

"I can't be hurt that you don't trust me." Despite her accusation, Lora didn't look up. "It is crazy, isn't it?"

Elma let several beats pass while she contemplating admitting that it scared her just how much she trusted this new BLADE.

Golden eyes, fringed by rusty red, trained on her. Oh, and with a gaze like that...

She deserved to know, didn't she? Just how she'd beaten the odds last time, and what the terrible cost had been?

Last time. As if these were iterative, these hypothetical and then again all too real life-or-death situations.

"Your file said you had a fear of authority," Elma joked, hoping to glean something greater about the factoid. It certainly hadn't shown thus far.

"Mmm. I can imagine," said Lora.

"So you don't, actually?"

"Commander Vandham respects you. Director General Chausson tolerates you - actually, I think he's the one who's afraid of you."

"And you?" And me?

With a final knot and a bite to the tail, Lora patted the braid smooth. She stood and moved close to Elma, whose arms remained crossed.

Not a single wile, nor even a fractional ounce. She wasn't so forward as to lay a hand to the other woman's cheek, either.

Her simple, direct honesty, not without its charming cockiness, said it all:

"You trust me. You care."

as i said to my wife on call as i was finishing this: this could've been butch/femme too if i'd tried hard enough. citation needed however