fighting_mad | [OOM] Simulator Room

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[OOM] Simulator Room

Juke left, juke right, juke left, juke right; lure your opponent into a false sense of security, make him think he knows exactly what you're going to do.

Lasers flash by on the screen.

One last juke to the right, and there's the light-up of a targeting lock; she yanks the stick back and to the left, throwing the sim fighter into a tight roll that should press her back against the seat with its force. Of course, this machine isn't nearly complex enough for that.

She's got to find some way to throw the Priamsta off guard like that. To catch the rebels--the ones who say they're lead by Harran but they're not they can't be--off guard and--

The flash of an explosion and the screen goes dark.

"Sithspit!" Plourr slams an open palm against the overhead frame of the simulator, then lets her hand rest there, hooked on the frame.

She runs her other hand over her head in an unconscious motion; auburn stubble still foreign to the touch, too rough and scratchy. Hell, her whole body feels foreign; her tunic is smooth and skintight, eggshell-colored with deep purple, allowing every cord of muscle to show. She's not used to anything so fine, and she's definitely not used to the matching skirt, to seeing her legs bare in anything but athletic shorts. High heels. She'd drawn whistles from the Rogues that afternoon; joking whistles, yes, and ones that had earned several of them glares and thwappings, but she had caught admiring looks from not a few men at court, too. From the nobles at dinner.

Dinner.

"The tyranny of the nobles is at an end, Laabann. I will see to that. If you wish a place in the future of Eiattu, either stand with the throne-- or fall."

The crash of a breaking wineglass.

"The choice is yours."

Plourr hits the top of the simulator again.

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Laughter finally abating, she leans back against the sim, letting her hand fall from her face. She looks up then, and her eyes stop on her other hand. A slightly awkward pause, and she's about to move when-- She sees Aeryn's face. And she suddenly grins, letting a rough knuckle almost touch the other woman's flushed cheek. "Embarrassed much?"

"No. That would be foolish." She could probably have prevented the smile, but it blossomed anyway, grey eyes sparkling. It chased away the stress of the day and erased the frown lines on her forehead.

Heat crackled between them, Aeryn swore she could smell it. It was about then that she realised she shouldn't have come here. That she should have walked away when she saw Plourr from the doorway.

But she didn't. She was here now and it was undeniable.

"After all, I've seen you half-naked."

"Uh huh." Plourr holds up a somber finger as if making a highly important point. "But I've seen you completely naked."

So she wins (as she grins). Clearly.

"So have a lot of people. I'm not ashamed of my body."

One side of her mouth rose higher than the other. Happy, but entirely smug.

What does Jaina know anyway? It's just some light-hearted banter.

She shrugs comfortably. "I didn't say you should be." There is a 'da-amn, you should not be' note in the twist of her lips and quirk of one eyebrow.

"You shouldn't be looking at me like that." Her gaze is suddenly steady, almost stern.

Her chest lifted and fell with a calm, relaxed rhythm. Yet her shoulders are stiff; tense.

"Why not?"

"Someone might see."

Yes, Aeryn. The empty room might see.

"It makes me itch."

It makes me ache. For something I know I shouldn't want.

"Let me get this straight," she says slowly, smile fading. "Someone. Might see me looking at you." She spits Aeryn with a look. "Oh Force. The horror."

It's less amused now, but there are still hints of that same note in her face, in brown eyes intent on Aeryn. "Itch?"

"Look, I don't know about you. But if Wes or Atton walk through that door. I won't hear the end of it for cycles. Sebaceans live for around two hundred."

The aggression was easier to deal with, if only Plourr would stop looking at her.

"Itch. You make me itch." She made as if to move past Plourr, dismissing her. Anything to avoid that stare.

Plourr takes the half-step that's necessary to put her right in Aeryn's path, with her arms crossed over her chest. You can't say something like that and then just walk away. "What are you saying, I'm a rash?" Unimpressed face.

Aeryn blinked, staring at Plourr's arms. "Move."

For frellsake. All she had to do was keep her guard up, make it uncomplicated and she couldn't even achieve that. She had to talk about itching, be stupid.

Yes. Everyone involved is sure that it's Plourr's arms Aeryn is staring at.

She lets out a frustrated breath, stubbornly not moving one millimeter. "I don't get you. At all. One minute, we're talking and laughing and it's fine, and the next you're talking about looking and itching and you're getting twitchy and running. What the hell's up?"

"Look, just move." She pushed her clammy hands onto Plourr's forearms, physically moving the woman away.

"You obviously don't get it. At all."

"I don't," and she takes a step back under the shove, floor cold under her bare feet, "which is why I just said I don't and why I'm asking you to kriffing explain."

"I can't sleep with you again."

Aeryn mentally facepalmed. Not even frelled, slept with. What a fool, she was.

"But you make me itch. I can't stand close to you without feeling it. Not even in a frelling empty sim room."

Eyeing her with no visible reaction to what she's said. "So what does that mean?"

"What do you think it means, Plourr?"

The soldier glared at her in disbelief.

"For the love of Cholak I've just told you I feel like jumping on you every time I'm alone with you, the least you could do is tell me I'm not crazy!"

"I meant for the future, because if you were heading toward something genius like 'we can't talk anymore' again I was going to go find my shoe and throw it at your head," she says heatedly. Before shuffling her bare feet a little, listening to the soft swish against the floor.

"But, hell, if wanting to jump me means you're crazy-- then I'm a kriffing lunatic, too."

Quietly, pacing the floor. The clump of her combat boots echoed the beating of her heart.

"No, that's not what I want."

She snorts softly, watching her pace. "I didn't think it was, but it's the truth."

"I don't feel guilty about what we did anymore."

Aeryn dipped her head solemnly, feet walking out a distraction, hips swaying as she paced.

"But something hurts like hezmana." She could feel her eyes watering and blinked it away quickly, thankful that her hair hid her face.

"And I just want it to stop."

If there's some relief there, she'd deny it. But nobody really wants to be regretted or thought of as a mistake, whether the words are apologized for or not.

She takes a few steps closer to where Aeryn walks, in a move that would be silent if it weren't for the gold bangles on her ankles that jangle. "You started on the road to figuring it out with the Jedi mind trick stuff, right? Now you've just got to finish it." She fidgets a little, knowing enough not to reach for the other woman. Plourr has never been much good at verbally comforting.

"I never thought --" She stopped, moving, speaking. Furious, helpless tears pricked her eyes again.

She hunched over the simulator, moving away, getting some space; needing to breathe.

It would be too easy to grab Plourr to make it stop aching.

"It hurts. It just really hurts and I can't show any weakness I have to pretend I'm fine and speak droll words and be the angry, sarcastic Peacekeeper."

She doesn't move after her, leaving her her own space. At the words, not that Aeryn is looking, but Plourr glances to her feet for a moment. "You don't have to," she says gently. Or, well, as gently as Plourr Ilo gets, anyway.

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