the_last_resort | Open Log

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Who: Narvin and OPEN
What: Narvin at work and off work (Also, Gallifreyan food is mostly terrible.)
When: Month 11, Day 14
Where: Museum Laboratory and Xyma's House Restaurant
Notes & Warnings:

The lab was different with Dr. Bishop gone. (Quieter and tidier for one thing.) But he'd been hoping to exchange notes with his colleague on the spawner technology. Now that was impossible. So he was on his own with the spawner. He'd borrowed one of the original spawners from the museum collections--an ancient relic excavated from the ruined city, not one of the new commercial spawners created by reverse engineering the old alien tech--and was carefully hooking up a Gallifreyan interface screen to a few of the spawner's diodes.

So far, people have just mimicked the technology. But Narvin wanted to know how it works, and know it well enough to start making significant alterations of his own to the tech.

Xyma’s House didn't have the homey restaurant atmosphere of F'nayalip and Joe's All Day Eats, but Narvin didn't care about homey. What Xmya's House had that brought Narvin there was an extensive menu off off-world cuisine, including Gallifreyan nutritional disks: tasteless round bites with the texture of styrofoam coated in plastic. The colourful shells made them appear almost interesting, but it was all a lie. The colours were coding to indicate what assortment of minerals and nutrients were in which disk.

It was a little taste of home, and Narvin came at least once a week. The server didn't bother to give him a menu any more, just placed the order as soon as Narvin sat down. They didn't take any preparation, so a plate of colourful disks reminiscent of oversized skittles was placed in front of him. He delicately stabbed a green one with a fork and contemplated it before sticking it in his mouth.

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As Narvin sat there, a large figure in an overcoat strolled up. The man wearing it was only marginally less garrish dressed than usual, concealing it beneath the long garment and a classy fedora. The identifiable round glasses were identifyable under the brim.

None of security knew who to look for, but that didn't mean he wasn't cautious. He rarely appeared in public, as it were, but this seemed important enough to address another import directly.

He settled in the chair opposite of Narvin without invitation but looking for all the world like he was supposed to be there, barely regarding the odd pebbles he was picking at. Instead he just picked up a menu and regarded it. "I see you found a little taste of home."

Narvin froze with his mouth open and the green disk hovering on the fork when the large man walked in. Hannibal Chau wasn't, strictly speaking the last person he expected to see walk through the door (that would probably be the Other, or maybe Lord Rassilon), but he was certainly high on the list and top of list if it were narrowed down to known Quadratus inhabitants.

Narvin set down the fork again, little green disk uneaten, and straightened his spine to sit a little taller in his chair.

"Yes. It's a little bit stale," although it took Time Lord taste buds to notice any difference between its usual tastelessness and even more tasteless, "but I appreciate the familiarity."

He chuckled, the smile flashing a mouthful of gold teeth. He decorated himself well, even where he knew the rest of his face was marred with scars and age.

"A keen sense of taste. I've heard from Gallifreyans that Transmute lingers on the tongue for hours." He pulled out a napkin, inside of it a blue vial, and slipped it across the table to Narvin before the waiter came over to take his order. Targ, stir fried, and Romulan Ale. He allowed the gentleman to take it before he folded his currently gloved hands (hiding the tattoos) on the table before him.

"It seems that I have a problem, a larger one than usual, and you're the one most convenient to fix it."

Narvin took the vial and tucked it out of sight in a pocket, the motion casual, smooth, nothing-to-see-here-folks. But even if anyone did see, notice, he had the feeling that Mr. Chau could aptly convince people to unsee anything he didn't want them to see, if he had a mind to.

"Well, since fixing your problems is the path to fixing my problem, I am, as the saying goes, at your service. What seems to be the matter?"

"Word has it that our Orion friends aren't being entirely friendly. The Quarantine might work to their advantage. They want to figure out how the spawners work, and how to detect them.

"A good detection system will be a favor to the Blood Pack. They use the caverns more than we do, can loot the spawning rooms. It's a fair trade, because the Orions want to try and find an intact and safe spawner to use to create endless slaves."

It would be good business, if one of the more advanced spawners could be honed for that. "Good" business, in that it would be lucrative and profitable, but it was too dangerous for Chau's blood. So far he'd lived under the radar, quiet. But something like this could easily drag him and Garona out into the open.

"What I gave you lets you go invisible for five minutes. You'd have that long to get real damn close to a working spawner without being seen. They're in short supply, so that's all I can get you. We find out how to detect the spawners at some sorta range, we give it to the Blood Pack, we let them bust up the spawners so the Orions can't start a business."

Because then the Quarantine would never lift, and it was getting expensive to get supplies. He tilted his head. "You think you can do that, sweet pea."

Narvin listened to the problem, the proposed solution. He remained expressionless throughout, right up until the end.

...Sweet pea?

His eyebrow quirks in puzzled surprise. It's not often...or ever...that people call him sweet pea.

"I can do it, but I have two conditions. One: '...Sweet pea?' Can't I be called something a little more dignified? And two: When the Blood Pack are off running around doing the vandal smashing they're so good at, I'd like them, if it's possible without excessive risk, to bring me an intact but deactivated skeleton spawner for the lab. I can assure you I want it for a more virtuous cause than the Orions."

"I'll see about arranging for you an intact spawner. They can't be moved until they're destroyed, though. So you'd have to have access to one still activated. All of our research-" and Hannibal Chau was a man that would do plenty of research "-indicates that if you light the areas around a spawner you can create a safety zone where skeletons won't appear, or anything that crawls out of the dark here. As long as it stays lit and the area is properly protected and closed off. You wouldn't want anything wandering up behind you."

But this will require Narvin to engage with the Blood Pack, and he wasn't going to guarantee his safety if he pissed them off. Chau knew when to treat violent souls with respect. He had been to prison.

"I don't care about virtuous. I care about whatever causes not being on this planet when you go through with them. You make mistakes, you threaten the quarantine. And Gallifreyan or not, I don't trust you or anyone else not to make mistakes playing around with something like this. Learn what you can but don't fuck it up here." He didn't even know Narvin's capacity for messing things up, but he did know this was volatile technology.

"As for the nickname? I call people whatever I damn well please. Don't think you're stuck with the one." He didn't earn his rank for nothing. He might have smiled at Narvin earlier, but the nod and smile he gave the waiter was tight-lipped to hide his golden teeth.

"So I have more nicknames to look forward to? Joy."

Narvin put his hands on the table top and laced his fingers together. He muses to himself that it's a good thing that he wasn't from a low-light species, or else to work safely with the spawners he'd need to borrow Agent Kay's eyewear.

"Oh, I'll be careful with my research. I have no intention of becoming a skeleton's victim. Or getting blown up by alien technology. How much light is required to keep the spawners from their hostile spawning?"

"You've not been in this line of work before, have you?"

He canted his head. Of course Narvin hadn't, he knew that. But the words were pointed out.

"You're lucky that I'm a kind and generous man." As far as bosses went, anyway. "If you were talking to Jabba the Hutt he would have gutted you for insubordination. Just say what you need to, ask what you need to. It's a good habit to get into, especially if you come across higher ranking members of the Orions."

Though, truthfully, Chau did mind snippy people less than most. The warning is genuine. "Average light. The same that keeps them from spawning in other dark places. It's something that the museum doesn't know yet."

Narvin held back a sigh. Mild insubordination was practically his modus operandi. Even when he largely agreed with a person or a policy, he still felt compelled to push back a little, as President Romana could attest.

At least Mr. Chau, unlike Jabba, didn't consider mouthing off grounds for being thrown into a pit of hungry targs or whatever Jabba's latest entertainment of choice was.

"Am I expected to call you 'sir,' then? It's much better than 'the Mighty Jabba, wise and merciful' I suppose."

He finally picked up his fork again, green food disk still impaled on it, and put it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed.

"I'll keep the advice in mind," he said. Holding his tongue wasn't fun, but being disemboweled by Orions would be much worse.

"And now for the more interesting question- with your curiosity I have to assume that you have been finding things out. And word of your little search for minds to read has gotten around."

"So what do you got that's useful? No petty bullshit. I want the good stuff." The stuff that he can use to his advantage, especially in finding new places to position his operatives.

"For some reason people weren't eager to have me poking about in their heads."

He leaned back in his chair and organizes what information he's acquired by other means into neat little mental piles.

"I know a great deal about Wynter, the newest security officer. He's inexperienced. All book learning and training in controlled environments, very little field experience. I believe Peter Bishop has been looking for his father, Dr. Bishop. If you or your people have information on Dr. Bishop, where he is or what happened to him, his son might be willing to buy. I suspect that Dr. Belloq is stealing artifacts, but I also suspect you already know that. He also recently hired Jade to document the dig, but I'm not certain if she's in on his thievery or not."

"I can pretty much confirm Belloq is," Chau said, shaking his head before he settle back and looked entirely too long at the wine menu. "Jade, I haven't heard any word on so I'm guessing not. But not too long ago an Orion captain tried to get some medicine off us and her name came up. I don't think she's buying but if you need a round about way to get things from them, she could be an in."

"You just gotta use the right words or look in the right places."

Which, getting Narvin to use the right words was kind of hard. "Play up that cultural idiot bullshit. It makes humans sympathetic and they'll want to get close to you so they can help you out. Act a little bit like a douche, let someone school you a little, and eventually they'll start to open up." He decided on what he wanted to take back with him and put the wine menu down.

"The Wynter guy's got Time Lord abilities, right? Best to give him a little range and let circumstances take care of themselves." If he was inexperienced, at least Chau had the warning to lay low. But that meant Jabba was an open target.

Edited 2015-01-14 07:59 (UTC)

Narvin raised an eyebrow. "I do believe this is the first time an employer of mine has encouraged me to be [a douche] prickly. Usually it's entirely the opposite."

He thought of Chief Kay explaining things to him, wondered if he should mention any of it to Mr. Chau. After a moment, decided not to. It wasn't as if Kay really opened up anyway. The man was like an Alvarrixian oyster. He didn't open up easily or readily.

"Wynter is a Time Lord, yes, with all that implies. And very eager in his work."

"Moderately."

His food came finally, and he held his lips carefully with his gratitude, not looking fully at the waiter so they couldn't see the scar- there were several reasons that Hannibal Chau didn't like appearing in public.

"Be polite to your superiors in this business because the only way you maintain obedience among criminals is to remind them that disobedience is worse than prison. Obedience gets you a lot of fringe benefits. When you're out there, a little bit of assiness gets you anger, and then sympathy for your uncertainty.

"Be careful with that sympathy, though. You start believing in it too much, you lose your advantage. The fact of the matter is they give it to you because they think you're an idiot and an asshole and it feels just so good for them to think they're changing the world." Chau knew. Chau was an asshole, and he knew that people liked to have their ego stroked by thinking that they chipped away from his protective veneer.

"Oh, I know all about bleeding-heart do-gooders who want to change the world." He'd never thought about it working on a personal level, however. Romana saw a civilization that was, in her view, "bad" and she felt positively compelled to fix it. But she'd never bothered turning any attention to "fixing" him or any other person. He could postulate, however, how a similar sort of impulse could drive someone to put in the same sort of time and effort to change a person as Romana put in to change a society. And probably with about as much effect, too.

"I disagree that impoliteness is the same as disobedience, however." Even now he couldn't stop arguing a little. "Well, maybe to someone like Jabba, and if I ever find myself face-to-jowl with him I'll use all the appropriate obsequities, but wouldn't you rather have an employee who was competent and loyal than one who was falsely polite?"

Rather than using the steak knife given to him, Hannibal Chau flicked out a golden balisong, flipping it around his gloved fingers with ease and experience. And then he cut through that meat as if it were scissors through paper- he kept the edge of that intimidatingly sharp.

"Your disagreement is noted," he said with a serious expression, taking a single, thinly sliced bite.

While he would put up with a small level of banter- he was who he was. A boss who had to maintain impressions. Talked back too much, and someone might start disobeying. They'd side with the other party, and he couldn't have that. He knew about Narvin's friendships, too. Allies were allies, and unless they became a problem for him directly, he wasn't going to act on it.

Narvin scooted back in his chair a few inches, his eyebrows popping up at the rapidly flick of the knife and the ease with which it cut through the meat. The leg chairs squeak a little on the floor at the movement. His dour mindset being what it was, he couldn't help but imagine what sort of damage that knife could do on living muscle, not just dead and cooked flesh.

He cleared his throat and let his hands rest in his lap to reestablish a calm and unconcerned demeanour.

"Thank you. ...sir." He hadn't called anyone sir since Coordinator Vansell had died. The word felt strange on his tongue.

Wynter on the other hand was after the food because he was having an upset stomach with the overload of senses that came with eating other worldly food for the first time. He tried to remind himself that he was doing pretty good considering it took him this long for him to need the respite, but he couldn't shake the vague sense of failure.

Narvin's presence... didn't help that. Partially because he was there at his greatest failure - getting himself killed, but mostly because he hadn't the first clue about what to do about him. Be friends? Colleagues? Were the scientists even his colleagues now?

Still, avoiding him would be giving in to weakness and it was best not to do that while it could be avoided. So he approached.

Can't even call him 'Coordinator'. Was 'Scientist', 'Technician' his title now? He wasn't sure. Which meant he had to use: "Narvin."

He indicated the chair. "May I join you?"

Wynter's presence in Blackway was unnerving. Not because of Wynter himself, whom Narvin had once privately assessed to be a tolerable, if woefully inexperienced, Castellan. (Certainly preferably to Andred.) It was because for him, Wynter was dead. Dead a long time ago. And whereas an alien life could be accessed at any point along their timeline--examine their gravestone one microspan, hop in a TARDIS and watch them being born the next--Time Lords were different. One couldn't go back in time and witness the birth of Rassilon. One couldn't see a dead man alive again. Or at least one wasn't supposed to.

Except here Wynter was.

But whatever Narvin's thoughts on the matter, Wynter was also the only other Time Lord on the planet, now that the quarantine was in place. And beyond that, Gallifrey owed a great deal to Wynter for containing the virus as long as he did, and giving warning to Romana. But gratitude wasn't something that Narvin was adept at showing.

"You can join me if you wish, although no one's ever praised me for my pleasant company, so don't expect much."

"Thank you," he replied, the absent 'sir' still feeling like a physical force. He knew well how Narvin could be, and the uncertain (to him anyway) structure of dealing with other 'departments' probably wasn't going to change that.

He gave the waiter his order, dithering over whether going for water or milk, as milk promised to settle stomachs. He ended up going for the safe option.

"How is your work… proceeding?" he asked awkwardly.

"It proceeds. Some aspects of it better than others."

His work in the museum laboratory analyzing alien technological artifacts, was slow but steady. His private project, however, of trying to regain his regenerations, was stalled.

"And what about yours? Settling in with security?"

"I'm sorry," he shrugged. "I suppose I can't help."

Well, he doesn't have much more in the sciences than were necessary to pass, so being of assistance where Narvin was lacking was exceedingly unlikely.

"Yes, I haven't encountered any difficulties. We still haven't established our culprit."

Of course, he was never worried about settling in. As a whole, it was a bit of a worry, on account of the alien nature of pretty much everyone but the security force in particular wasn't.

Wynter, like most Time Lords, worked well in established structures of relationships. The boss and the colleagues. Very simple. And Wynter's general personality lent itself to being approachable.

Finding their culprit was a little more challenging, with his handicap of not knowing who was who.

"Unless you've suddenly become a technical specialist as well as a security specialist, no. You can't help."

He chose to change the subject.

"Are you continuing your security training? It was rather...cut short on Gallifrey."

Under circumstances they both knew and Narvin didn't think proper to say directly. But...thinking upon it, and his own predicament, a question came to him. A very important question that he should have thought of sooner.

"The regenerative virus... You never regenerated. You died and never regenerated. The Dogma Virus in the flask you drank, is it inert in your body now? Cured? Or will it assert itself if you regenerate here?"

"I'm doing well," he assured him, wincing slightly at the addition. It was easier to talk to people who didn't tenderfoot their way around it. In their case, it was mostly out of ignorance, but being sensitive acknowledges how awful it was, and Wynter didn't want reminding.

He took a few breaths to quench the panic threatening when he remembered coming to the Barge and finding Iris there. "No, I… don't have the virus. I… checked. Thoroughly."

"Good." He breathed out a sigh of relief. "Good." For Narvin to finally someday regain his regenerations only to become infected with the Dogma Virus and lose all sense of identity the first time he regenerated would be more tragic irony than he wants in his life.

But he gave Wynter a different explanation.

"We already have walking skeletons and giant spiders on our hands. I'd hate to see a zombie inflicted on this town as well, if you were to regenerate."

Wynter didn't respond immediately.

"Zombies?" he asked. "How do you mean?"

He also suspected that Narvin's relief was more personal than that. But if he was to be a victim, then of course it would be.

"Leela's word for it. Or was it Romana's? I can't remember which. Not entirely accurate in any case. But the Dogma Virus doesn't just hijack regeneration, it stalls it. Upon dying, instead of regenerating the body remains as it is, brain functions become minimal, and the afflicted mutter "Free Time" and shuffle about, and once triggered by some unknown signal, become hostile."

"You never found the signal?" That was a little alarming. Whoever might have sent it might still be a concern. Or at least, still at large.

"I was kidnapped by Braxiatel just as the 'zombies' began to become hostile and unwillingly dragged off to various unpleasant alternate universes for the next year, so investigating what happened became ever so slightly difficult."

He leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together.

"But Arkadian was present in the Capitol when it happened so I'll let you make your inferences from that. You have read the files on Mr. Mephistopheles Arkadian, I trust?"

It was still something of an important gap, but that wasn't Narvin's fault, he supposed. What if it wasn't as obvious as that?

"Yes. I take it he's still at large?" If he wasn't, surely Narvin wouldn't have to rely on implications.

"No idea. Last anyone saw him he was flying off with an unregistered TARDIS full of temporal weapons and a "zombiefied" Surgeon Master. Whether he survived the encounter, I couldn't say. I looked into the matter once I returned to Gallifrey proper, and as far as I can tell, no one has seen or heard from him. Of course, Arkadian being the kind of person whom he is, that doesn't mean much. He could just be in hiding. Or, he could be dead and his stolen TARDIS tumbling, lost, through the Vortex forever. Frankly, at the moment Gallifrey has bigger things to worry about."

Bigger things than a known temporal crook with a massive stash of temporal weapons. That was how bad things have gotten.

Narvin seemed to have failed to realise that it's less his manners being questionable that is driving his coversation partners away (whoever they may be) but his relentless (at least so it seemed to Wynter) knack for making them depressed about life.

"Reassuring."

Narvin's pessimism was as strong as ever. And only validated further by recent events on Gallifrey.

"If you want only good news, you got into the wrong line of work."

"That doesn't mean I should expect to be starved of it," he pointed out. "If you were to say, on a similar level to Arkadian, I'd be rather more satisfied."

Grainne had just walked in, wearing one of her more modern dresses, giving herself a bit of a night out and a treat. It had been a long time since she had a good beef stew, and was being seen to a table, when she paused by Narvin's table on her way passed his.

"Hello again. Forgive me, but what are those you are eating?" She blinked, noticing the strange skittle like things he had in front of him.

Edited 2015-01-13 00:41 (UTC)

He paused his in meal to nod a greeting at Graine and finished chewing his current bite and swallowed before answering.

"It's food native to my planet. Produced artificially and processed for optimal health and nutrition. This one is generally referred to as Food Package Type G."

An eyebrow quirked. That sounded so very unappetizing... "Is that a modern way of making food? Does it taste good?" Well, she was curious. Her steak sounded very much better to her stomach, but new things were interesting from time to time.

"It's modern on my home planet. Not on Quadratus or most of the places and eras the other imports come from." He looked down at his plate, considered the question of whether it tasted good. That was harder to answer.

"It doesn't taste terrible. But nutrition is more the point, not taste. It's not meant to be enjoyed, simply to serve the practical function of providing the body with the proper fuel."

"Oh..." Grainne reached up to press a finger against her chin in thought. "It sounds efficient, but I have always viewed that a good meal nourishes the soul and mind as well as the body." A light blush turned her cheeks pink. "Not that I am a very great cook..."

She glanced back to the waiter that was supposed to show her to her table. "Might I join you? Company is always pleasant during a meal."

He gestures to the empty chair across from him. "Feel free. I can't guarantee I'll be much of a conversationalist. Back home I'm not exactly known for my charm."

Grainne nodded in acknowledgement and sat down at the table, her waiter handing her a menu. "I have known men whose charm hid their worse traits. I prefer honesty, or at least earnest conversation." She glanced over the menu and hesitated. There were so many good things to eat here, her original idea of a good steak seemed a little mundane. "And people of few words I find refreshing."

He sniffed in a slight laugh.

"People back home would say that I'm not the place to go for honesty, either. But I can say that I'm forthright in my opinions and don't dissemble for niceties' sake."

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Option B / Plottiness

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Xyma's

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