02. video / open

[landfall]

[ Here, Barge, have Racetrack who has just woken up from being a Navy sailor and fighting pirates and seriously what the frak. ]

I am so confused.

[ Help. :c ]

Comments

[deshabille]

[Good.]

I'll find you.

[landfall]

[ Well if and when Mal shows up guess who's drinking through the place to see if anything tastes like ambrosia from home.

She has small amounts of drink in several different glasses. Might as well take her time and taste around. ]

[deshabille]

[Mal, of course, takes her own sweet time. When she does get there, she smiles in satisfaction - it passes inspection, at least the first sweep. And the chairs aren't stuck to the floor, even.]

[She slides into the seat next to Racetrack without any greeting whatsoever.]

[landfall]

[ all the better for her to nudge you with an elbow! ] Hey, pirate.

[ What is your name again? ]

What'll you have?

[deshabille]

[A light smile.]

Whatever's on tap. As opposed to - everything, which I see you've gone for.

[Amused and approving. O Racetrack.]

[landfall]

Nothing tastes quite right. It's not bad...

[ 'scuze her, she's going to go secure that drink for you. ]

[deshabille]

[When she returns - thank you, Racetrack - she nods, takes it, doesn't drink yet. Instead she looks up curiously.]

What are you used to?

[landfall]

At the moment?

[ Thuds right back on into that chair. ]

Reprocessed algae, horrible rotgut from homemade stills, and pointless pining for stuff that got left behind.

[deshabille]

[A smirk.]

Well. Given the terrible homemade stills I left behind, I'll take this.

[landfall]

Me too. I think my taste buds are getting a workout for the first time in four years.

[deshabille]

Very serious about your hangovers?

[landfall]

Gotta be. I don't hangover easily. This body is a fine-toned piece of equipment.

[deshabille]

Mm.

[She can see that.]

I don't think I ever caught your name, in the melee.

[Extends her hand.]

I'm Mal.

[landfall]

[ gods damn it she wasn't even trying to flirt that time but everything that comes out of her mouth is flirty somehow what is happening.

She takes the hand. ]

Racetrack.

Um, Margaret Edmondson. Racetrack's the callsign.

[deshabille]

[She considers both of these options.]

Which do you want me to call you?

[landfall]

Racetrack. [ It's going to take a while to get used to not being a pilot. ] For now. [ It's a comfort thing for her, not a distancing of Mal. She hopes that's not too unclear.

Wait, why does she hope that? What does she care? ]

It's what people normally call me, anyway.

[deshabille]

[It's perfectly clear. Besides, she's used enough to odd names, given the company she's kept in the past. Her smile is thin, approving. She drinks now.]

Racetrack, then.

. . . I like it. Better than others I've heard. Why that?

[landfall]

In training, I had a rep for pushing the birds as fast as they'd go.

[ And there were other reasons. She-is-not-blushing-oh-no. ]

[deshabille]

[This time her smirk's molasses-slow.]

I'd like to think I've gained that reputation, too, but no one's been brave enough to give me a nickname.

[landfall]

Everyone gets a nickname. It's your callsign. It has to be unique, over the wireless.

[deshabille]

Wireless.

[She speaks slowly, the word foreign in her mouth.]

I see. So there's no confusion.

We were fewer, I think. Less need for that. And no wireless.

[landfall]

And, with crossbows, you probably weren't in space.

[deshabille]

Not even close. Landlocked, in fact.

[landfall]

You know what space is, though, right?

[deshabille]

Given that we're in it - yes, I'm learning.

Conversely, do you know how to work a crossbow? Have you ever fought with a sword? Can you build a fire?