sunchime | [ open post: miles ]

She was meant to wait. She was meant to stay out of this while the "proper authorities" handled the situation. The thing of it was Lara wasn't meant to be here at all, on this far off world in a distant future that might not even be her own. The people she held dear were dead or painfully out of reach and even as much of a loner as she was by nature, she guarded those who were left even more closely.

And really, once you walk into Hell for someone you love, it's surprisingly easy to do so again without much of a thought. She did it for Sam, she does it now for Miles.

Not having a gaping wound in her stomach is a good start, though the hastily patched knife slash on her hip is starting to nag a little. She is not a naturally intimidating figure, but there is something terrifying about the woman who forces the door of the interrogation room open with a crowbar. Streaked in dirt and blood and dressed in stolen clothes, there's something vicious about the woman who leaps across the room to bring the same crowbar smashing down on the head of the one guard with brutal efficiency. He crumples to the floor with little more than a groan.

That woman seems to disappear with a breath when she turns. It's only Lara, dropping to kneel in front of the chair Miles' tied to, worry radiating off her. "Miles- Miles, are you all right?"

Miles is well-acquainted with the meaning of pear-shaped, but any day he gets dragged off by the guys shooting at them is usually a bad one. He knows the cavalry will arrive eventually -- he hopes -- but the job has to get done, too, and is it really so much to hope for both?

He's looking a little worse for the wear, panting and with a contusion on his cheek and a bloodied lip, but he could look a lot worse. He'd just sort of stared when Lara burst into the room and taken out that guard, and he blinks his eyes back into focus, focusing on her. God, the woman's a damned force of nature.

"I could do without the fast-penta hangover, but on the other hand, I haven't got any broken bones, so I'll take it." He eyes the crowbar and a cracked laugh escapes his throat. A crowbar, of all things. Anyone else would have stolen a stunner, but Lara Croft used a crowbar. "Couldn't find a bow and quiver?"

A laughing Miles was always a good sign. Well... usually. It eases a little of her fear, her chest loosening enough for her to take a breath.

"Seems to be a bit of a shortage on this planet," she says with a little bit of a smile, "Let's get you out of here, yeah?" Though she takes a moment to wipe a little of the blood off his chin before she pulls a ring of keys out of her pocket. Because Lara Croft is nothing if not very good at finding things she isn't supposed to.

Miles wheezes out a laugh in relief when he sees the keys in her hand, though his chin jerks toward the door as he watches for anyone less than friendly who might have followed her.

"Have I ever told you you're an an angel?" He can't quite seem to catch his breath yet, but that come-down from fast-penta is a dizzying slide, and the interrogation left him feeling completely wrung out. He hadn't managed to pull the Shakespeare trick this time around, but he's sure he threw them enough with his reaction. He wriggles in anticipation, antsy and jittering. "Fairly certain my mother would too, and she's an actual theist. Where's the rest of the crew?"

She sees the little gesture even as she moves around to start trying keys on his cuffs.

"Don't worry, we're as safe as we can get here." Which isn't that safe, but Lara had been through. A good amount of the blood hidden in the black of her clothes is not her own. "They're detained. Not here, they're safe. Something about suspended action, needing clearance. Bel couldn't tell me everything, but they did say it was Barrayar political caste garbage." She technically wasn't part of the crew after all and she was very much not part of ImpSec.

The cuffs open with a sharp clack and Lara tosses those aside, moving back around. "Think you can walk?"

Up close, Miles can see the damp fabric and it does nothing for the racing panic, but Lara seems to be alright. He's practically vibrating as soon as she gets him free, and he heaves out a breath like a man who's been suffocating once she does.

"Wait, you're alone?" He shakes out his hands with an alarmed look up at her. He hops out of the chair to reach his hands to her shoulders -- he seems to sway a little, but he's more or less steady on his feet. "Er -- if the rest of the Dendarii are behind meters of admittedly effective Barrayaran political red tape, how'd you get in here?"

Probably shouldn't be his prior concern. He should probably be focusing on the fact that his identities have gotten this crossed, and Simon's going to be all kinds of pissed -- but right now, he'll focus on the little details.

She bends a little, hands out to steady him or take his weight if he needs it. Lara could imagine Miles would prefer if she didn't carry him out of the base, but that didn't mean she wouldn't. He was a little smaller than Sam and they weren't scaling down a mountain at any rate.

"I walked mostly," she said, smiling a little, perhaps a little too at ease for a young woman who's just fought and killed her way through a base. She was mostly pleased to see Miles in one piece, "I might have been here sooner, but my ride broke down."

Miles is about to object to that lack of real answer, but his legs fail him, and for a moment he just falls heavily against Lara with a wheeze until he can get his feet properly back under him. He's still feeling a little shattered from the fast-penta and adrenaline cocktail. He blinks up at her.

"Your ride?"

Lara's there to catch him, hands at his waist and she barely even sways at the impact.

"Sort of mine. I borrowed it from Imperial Security, in a manner of speaking." Even when Miles regains his footing, Lara keeps her hands at his waist, "You're sure you're not hurt?"

"You stole a groundcar from Imperial Security?" Miles chokes out, swaying slightly. Alright, so he's overestimated how easy walking would be, but dammit, he's ready to get out of here. He reevaluates just how pissed Simon is going to be after he hears about this whole affair and actually cringes.

"Nothing all that bad," he says, testing his weight, and finds himself steady enough, even if he hasn't yet caught his breath. "Fast-penta just does a hell of a number on me. I think we'd better get moving, eh?"

"I didn't steal it, I borrowed it," and she has the nerve to sound prim when she says it.

She nods, but waits a few moments more til he's steady on his feet. "There's what looked like a communications room not far from here, just down the hall."

It's an eerily quiet hall and tho Lara is sure she'd cleared the building, she still keeps the crowbar in hand.

Post-fast-penta and unarmed, Miles is not-so-secretly glad for the crowbar in Lara's hand while he's still catching his breath.

"Thought I saw that when they dragged me in here," he pants, limping alongside her. "If I can get any of the outgoing coms working -- I think I've got an override that'll work -- then we can get the hell out of here, and I can start filling out the paperwork for that groundcar." Because lord, will there ever be paperwork. Miles is struck with a sudden, hypo-hysterical giggle. "I really had hoped to introduce you to my boss under better circumstances, Lara, I promise."

Given what it had taken for Miles to actually get into the Imperial Service Academy, he should be grateful. He should be more than grateful. He should be saluting and shaking the hands and patting the ass of every instructor who deigns to have him in their classroom. Okay, well, that's going a bit far even for self-flagellating sarcasm in the inner monologue, but he wasn't expecting the student experience to be so...limiting.

You wanted to be in school so bad, and now you're here. You can't very well complain about having to answer to teachers.

Apparently he can, according to the fresh new demerit on his record. Yet another failure of subordination. Exactly what he wanted just before a few days of home leave. So, yeah, he'd found some reason or another not to return to Vorkosigan House until late last night, and the conversation at the breakfast table provides a brilliant alternative to answering the question and how have you been doing in school, son?

He listens to his father bitch about the latest obstructive bullshit from the conservatives — something about a revised curriculum for the Academy being a little too progressive, a little too galactic. His mother makes a distant comment about the government censorship of information, to which his father responds in a slightly strained voice that the Academy is itself an arm of the government, and Miles seizes on this immediately, encouraging his father to expand on these grievances. Perhaps a bit too obviously, from the look on his father's face, but it's still better than talking about his own classes, and Miles knows his father wants to see him take more of an interest in the political side of things. So, equal parts morbidly curious and in need of an academic diversion, he tags along with his father to the next meeting at Vorhartung Castle.

It's not a full assembly of the Counts, just the handful of conservatives who've picked this stupid hill to die on, and Count Vortala to provide a little party support for Count Vorkosigan. Count Vorkalloner seems to be the most vocal opposition, his face sour as he mutters something about how they oughtn't be letting women make educational decisions when it comes to the Imperial Service. Miles, for once, actually keeps his mouth shut and watches. For now, anyway.

One of Vorkalloner's partymates makes a save it for later gesture, seeing as they're still waiting on the other party for this meeting. The Professora, Miles's parents had referred to her over breakfast, apparently one of Barrayar's premier history experts. While he'll admit that this isn't the most exciting political excursion of all time, he is curious to meet the woman who's got Vorkalloner looking like he bit into a lemon only to discover a worm.

The timbre of womens' voices is not unheard of in the halls of Vorhartung Castle, as more than a few of those Vor whose strings of power twine around the distaff nevertheless keep an eye on what the men are puffing and strutting over. Still, to hear two of them talking together might certainly catch the ear, even before the topic of their discussion can be picked out.

Emerging from a doorway into the long hall that filters to the Chamber and the galleries that flank it, a woman of a certain age and equally certain academic standing is mid-explanation to her younger assistant, who shares a certain similarity in features, albeit with more striking colouring and much less certainty in her body language about her droit d'entrée into the castle.

"In the Time of Isolation, my dear, most trades passed internally along family lines to some extent. In Earth's history, as well. So, while I am most certainly engaged in nepotism to have my niece as my research assistant, I shall take comfort in knowing that I have tradition on my side as I do so."

"As you anger the traditionalists?"

"A knock-on benefit, perhaps."

Laughter then, of the sort that speaks of a comfortable relationship across the generational span. The apparent-apprentice trails a trio of steps behind her academic master and pushes a neatly stacked library cart of presentation materials that run the gamut from a container of holodisks with little coloured flags to order them, books that range from semi-modern texts to venerable tomes, and even two preservation cases with markings indicating that they're hosting scrolls from one segment of the Time of Isolation where hides were more readily available than wood pulp. She is dressed, for those with either an innate eye for such things or Alys Vorpatril as an aunt, in clothing that's neither on the edge of Vorbarr Sultana student trends 'nor behind them, and instead seems to be made of a mixture of South Continent simplicity with a few local pieces added in that suit a harmonious personal taste rather than fashion holos.

The sound of ladies' voices plural, however, indistinct, pricks Miles's ears. Oh? And did the Professora perhaps bring a lovely young assistant?

His father, excruciatingly aware that the conservatives are wasting just as much of the Professora's time as his, rises to his feet to greet her with a bow, the other Counts perforce following. A neat little bit of weaponized courtesy, Miles notes mentally.

"Thank you, Dr. Vorthys, for making time in your busy schedule to accommodate ours once again," says Count Vorkosigan evenly, because he certainly doesn't need to put any particular weight on the words to drive the point home to his colleagues. Miles's assessment of the Professora — more or less what he was expecting from what he'd heard from his parents, though he gets the vague but delightful sense that she'll bring a bit of the unexpected — comes to an abrupt halt when his gaze falls on the young woman with her.

Oh, Miles thinks stupidly, very lovely indeed.

He finds himself briefly arrested by the sight of her. Hard not to, with those striking features, that dark hair set against her pale skin, the tall, slender figure even more accentuated by her choice of clothes. And what an interesting choice it is; it's the sort of ensemble that very well might easily clash, and yet on her it coheres into an almost timeless style. It's a rather unique look without being so unique that she stands out. It strikes Miles as uniquely her.

The clothes, however, only have so much of his attention. Is there something familiar about her, or does he just have an embarrassingly specific type? It's true that, at first glance, she reminds him of Elena in her height and coloring, but her features don't have that strong underlying Bothari bone structure, none of the hard edges Elena had uncovered in herself by the end of that hectic run in Tau Verde space. No, this young woman seems to be from another species of grace altogether, and those blue eyes are quite, well...eye-catching.

Good lord, has it really been that long since he saw another woman his age up close? Is military life getting to him before he's even graduated? A little inward sigh. No, not that. Only stupid heartbreak resurrecting itself like some swamp monster determined to drag him down into its bog.

Stop that.

He realizes he's staring. His father is giving him a peculiar look. Miles clears his throat ever so quietly and follows up with a bow of his own, as respectfully low as his father's.

"Dr. Vorthys, allow me to introduce my son, Lord Miles Vorkosigan," says Count Vorkosigan. "He's a first year student at the Imperial Service Academy. I thought this might prove to be a rather educational opportunity for him on a number of levels. Miles, this is Dr. Helen Vorthys — the University of Vorbarr Sultana's foremost expert historian on the Time of Isolation."

In the back of his mind, Miles wonders if he ought to have worn his undress greens to this meeting instead of his civilian clothes. What he's wearing is perfectly appropriate to the occasion, but he now finds himself waffling anxiously over whether or not he cuts a sufficiently military figure in them. But he supplies a brilliant smile without skipping a beat this time, nodding his head in lieu of another bow.

"How do you do, madame? My parents speak quite highly of you. It is a pleasure to meet you in the flesh. And you as well, ah..."

He looks to the young woman, faltering for lack of a name. Count Vorkosigan, apparently in a helpful mood, says expansively, "And you must be Ekaterin Vorvayne. I understand the Professora has quite the assistant on this case."

"...Miss Ekaterin Vorvayne," Miles finishes, flicking a grateful look his father's way, and offers the young woman an even brighter smile in the hopes of offsetting any previous awkwardness.

With her fears about the assistant's position not so much soothed as comfortingly confirmed and then utterly dismissed out of hand, Ekaterin had been trying her best to retreat into the sort of attentively silent serving mode she imagined the flying squadrons of High (Highest!) Vor might well overlook, at least if holodramas were anything to go by.

It wasn't that she didn't want to be here, on a private tour of the planet's halls of power that rather shattered the memories of secondary school civics class visits to the hall of their local Count's Voice. It was just... did she, barely-not-a-minor daughter of a very minor bureacrat, actually have any right to be standing here, or was she about to be escorted out to some historically-dense hallway the second the holodisks were delivered? And if so, would she be executed if she attempted to try and move some of the poor, light-starved potted plants she'd seen earlier?

All her musings run aground in an instant as her attempt at unobtrusiveness fails spectacularly in one warmly rumbling greeting in a voice more often heard in newsvid clips.

The Prime Minister of Barrayar knows my name.

...well, then answer him, you idiot, don't just stand like the scarecrow they picture from the words 'South Continent'.

"I-- the Professora is extremely well organized. It's very easy to assist her, my lord."

She ventures a fleeting smile, then looks away to the shorter figure beside him, eyes widening briefly as more Capital gossip chains link themselves together to return a name. "--and thank you, Lord Vorkosigan. I'd heard you were on leave." Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, half-Betan, Count's Heir, mutant, nepotism at its finest... and yet, there were those near-rapturous, if rather inebriated, burblings from that one uniformed fellow at a party who'd stopped going over interminable details of military training just long enough to swear he'd follow the sawed-off maniac into fire, if it got him the same scores he'd gotten by having him in his tactics squad.

Well. He was short, certainly, but sawed-off didn't seem to apply. Indeed, he seemed less deformed and more... foreshortened. Concentrated, perhaps, with how bright the gleam in his eyes was. The lone dissenting voice against all the gossip she'd heard floated to mind again. Military tactical analysis was distinctly outside her wheelhouse, but to hear such a divergent viewpoint from the only person she's encountered who'd actually met him... She flashes a second smile, less alarmed than the one his father had received, and then ducks behind the trolley at a nod from her aunt.

Aunt Vorthys, bless her, lookes on at the proceedings with a smile for her niece, a gracious nod to the Prime Minister and his heir, and a mildly firm look out at the covey of counts before clearing her throat softly and stepping forward. "Gentlemen. I am ready to begin. As an aid to clarity of thought, I've had Miss Vorvayne load identical annotated copies of the proposed curriculum onto these reader pads, which she will hand around to you. If you will be so good as to cite page and line references when offering comment--"

Grateful for the chance at movement, Ekaterin picks up her armful of readers, squares her shoulders, and moves ahead to begin dispensing them to the Counts. Moving such that she's starting with the crustiest and saving the seemingly-friendly Vorkosigans for last feels like an odd little treat.

Edited 2025-09-10 02:58 (UTC)

A slight smile crinkles Count Vorkosigan's eyes at Ekaterin's response — a sure sign of approval if Miles has ever seen one. Miles latches on like a limpet to a very pretty rock.

His bright smile is briefly startled into an unguarded look of surprise, though, at her first direct remark to him. "Er — you did?" he says, just off-balance enough that he forgets to play it cool. For a moment, his wild imagination indulges a scenario in which his brief but demerit-disgraced home leave was the talk of the town until he realized it was probably because Dr. Vorthys had told her.

In Miles's experience, those prejudiced enough to judge solely by his appearance usually do one of two things: look the other looked away, or stare like he's an attraction at a carnival. Miss Ekaterin Vorvayne — every syllable of her name already like music to Miles's ears — does neither. She...evaluates.

Revulsion and contempt from strangers have become so routine that its absence throws him off. Not that he was expecting anything so crass as a hex sign from this young lady; if her clothes are anything to go by, she must hail from South Continent, but she seems a good deal more...refined than his mental image of the demographic Ivan has dubbed "the country girls".

And who's leaning on stereotypes now, boy?

But the way she looks at him is...interested. Not romantically, of course — he's not that self-delusional — but rather like someone might look at a particularly fascinating exhibit in a museum, perhaps. He finds himself sitting up a little straighter in his seat, wanting to make an impression.

And then she smiles at him. Oh, Miles thinks stupidly, for the second time since the lovely young assistant walked in through the door.

The conservatives are apparently too dignified to actually audible grumble in front of Dr. Vorthys, but the knit brows and pursed lips are loud enough. They look impatient before they've even begun. Reluctant to go through this yet again, are they? Miles refrains from casting another querying look at his father, but he does wonder what Count Vorkosigan has up his sleeve today. He's carried a definite air of finality about him into this meeting.

Well, this should be interesting.

Miles favors Ekaterin with another smile as she distributes readers to himself and his father. "Thank you, Miss Vorvayne," he chirps, holding his hand out — but he miscalculates the trajectory, and quite by accident, his hand brushes hers. The speed at which he feels his ears go hot is, in the moment, more mortifying than any demerit.

As the initial rustles of readers being positioned to best accommodate the varying levels of hyperopia amongst the august, aging body of government subside, a moment's quiet descends on the chamber like the pause before the stage curtains' rise... or the axe's fall.

The Professora's continued air of gently defiant patience suggests that if it's the latter, she's not the one with her head on the block. Which is distinctly interesting, Ekaterin reflects to herself. She's been a party to only a fraction of the hours her aunt has poured into the proposed curriculum, and she's privately irate at the thought that all that effort in research, cross-connection, historical narratives and a half-healed case of carpal tunnel syndrome could be dismissed entirely by thirty one sufficiently fossilized votes. Is her aunt simply such a historian that she's prepared to neutrally document events however they fall out, or does she know something?

It's at this moment that her hand brushes against Miles', and all thoughts of whether a game is afoot go up in a flush of heat to her cheeks and a reflexive "Oh-- I'm sorry. I--"

But, further attempts to apologize for... something (Existing? Having an ungloved hand like some maiden about to fall into dishonour in a Time of Isolation docu-drama? Calm down, you just laid hands on the Emperor's foster brother, not Emperor Gregor himself she twits herself) are silenced as the first salvo of Conservative critique unfurls itself, and she finds herself motioned to a seat beside Lord Miles by a Castle functionary with a keen eye on the clock and a desire to not lose yet another mealtime to excessive wordsmithing. She settles, with another flash of a smile in apology, and turns to watch the show.

Helen Vorthys is looking even more patient. Something is decidedly up.

"Not at all — " Miles starts to say in response before the Castle functionary very pointedly ensures that everyone is seated. Oh, god, and she's sitting next to him. At least he'd just barely managed not to drop his reader — he is holding onto it with rather a death grip, hoping his return smile doesn't look too much like a rictus grin.

Miles's desperate desire to look like anything but an awkwardly fumbling teen in front of his father only intensifies as another person gets added to that most distinguished of categories. At least his father's attention is too locked in on the proceedings to pay his teenage awkwardness much mind. An example he ought to be following. Focus. He needs to focus.

And with focus, occasionally comes clarity. This particular topic might be new to Miles, but he's seen his father in the midst of countless troublesome little battles with the Council like this over the years, and underneath his politely masked impatience is...patience, like Count Vorkosigan is the one waging a quiet war of attrition and not the stuffy old conservatives. Miles's attention sharpens and locks on, his hideous embarrassment forgotten almost entirely in his intent concentration.

Count Vorkalloner does the Professora the most basic courtesy of letting her finish her opening statement before saying, "While the...depth of your research is quite impressive, unless you are here to present to us a wholly amended curriculum, this is a waste of everyone's valuable time — including yours."

His tone turns almost gentle, no less firm but couching his words as though talking to a child. Or, Miles thinks, if you're a particular kind of old Vor, a woman. His gaze moves to the Professora to see how she reacts while Vorkalloner keeps on, opening one hand in a conciliatory gesture.

"I'm sure you see us as uncompromising old curmudgeons unwilling to budge on such a simple issue, but at the end of the day, we represent a consensus. Do you think those of us on the Council of Counts are the only objection to this distinctly galactic agenda? What about the families of those young men whose minds and careers have been entrusted to the Imperial Service Academy?" Vorkalloner waves that hand, then closes it and brings it to his chest. "Dr. Vorthys, it is not your competency or your intelligence that we doubt, but the suitability of your pedagogical theory to this particular student body. Were this vote up to the Academy instructors and not the Council of Counts, you would certainly receive the same response. It is precisely because we value your academic reputation that we are having these discussions within the confines of the Council."

Just a slightly more diplomatic way of saying that the conservatives think they're sparing the Professora considerable public embarrassment by shutting her down in private. Her composure must indeed be legendary, to bear all of that without giving in to the impulse to pop old Vorkalloner in the eye. But Count Vorkosigan, most curiously, only smiles.

[ open post: miles ]

Lara Croft: Probably Scarier than most Vor

SCARY ENOUGH

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waves hands vaugely

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teen miles & ekaterin's adventures in academia

Re: teen miles & ekaterin's adventures in academia

CLAPS MY HANDS IN DELIGHT

Re: CLAPS MY HANDS IN DELIGHT

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	That's because I've got forward momentum. There's no virtue in it. It's just a balancing act. I don't dare stop.
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