annexedlogs | Open Log

Open Log

Who: Layla and OPEN
What: Mini-missions and downtime
When: Throughout the month
Where: Around the Witch's Camp
Content Warnings: Possible violence, illness

I. Propaganda: Media
In one of the small parks in the Magitech district, there is a pack of children, ages ranging from four to eight, chasing a stuffed ragdoll that skitters and scampers with a stumbling gait, weaving around its pursuers, ducking between the taller ones' legs, and occasionally bouncing harmlessly off some obstacle, living or otherwise.

Mostly, it avoids passers by. Mostly.

The source of the thing's motion is, presumably, the slim dark-haired woman sat on a nearby bench, gaze unfocused, video camera set up next to her and trained on the spectacle.

It isn't until, through concerted effort, four of the children simultaneously tackle the doll with a gleeful and only slightly bloodthirsty cheer that she snaps back to attention, wincing slightly and rubbing her temples, then pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand. It's only then that she seems to notice she's gained an audience, and flashes a weary smile.

"That wasn't you at the end, was it?" she asks. Maybe it was. Maybe it was a tree. Navigating the world without proper sensory organs isn't the easiest feat, after all.

II. The Weather Wizards
Today, it's freezing rain. Layla stands just outside the zone of hostile weather, frowning at the ice-slicked street. She hadn't actually intended to go chasing trouble today, but her destination is on the other side of the chaos, and she's tired enough - head pounding and stomach sour - that she has no desire to detour several blocks because some idiot has decided they need to get alien internet famous.

She glances sidelong, and maybe you're out visiting the markets with her, or maybe she just recognizes you from a briefing, or around the barracks, or those early raids on the Sylphid's facilities, but regardless, she smiles, though there's an exasperated edge to it, and it doesn't quite touch her eyes.

"Any bets on how long it will take us to sort this one out?"

III. Around the Camp
Layla isn't usually difficult to find - she has coffee at Cyborg most mornings, teaches a self-defense course at a small studio several afternoons a week, and spends much of her free time training, in the library, or making a circuit of various markets, window-shopping and listening to gossip.

Usually being the operative word. The first couple weeks of the month, she's less in sight, harder to pin down. And when she can be, she looks pinched and tired, like she hasn't been sleeping well, or is fighting some illness.

Whatever it is, she seems to throw it off towards the end of the month, sliding back into what passes for her usual routine. If she occasionally looks a little distant, attention caught by something not immediately apparent - what of it? That can't be so uncommon here.

Wildcard
If you have an idea for something else, go for it, or shoot me a PM to plot!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"God," she says. "You missed your calling as a lower school teacher, Steven. You know why my reserves are low."

She shifts her hands enough to dig the heels of her palms into the lower rim of her eye sockets. "This tether bullshit is getting bad." It's quiet, and carries the faintest note of defeat.

"And you and Marc both know how to fix that," Steven points out, not really ungently. He really wants to do one of those things Marc does, using his other hand to knead the back of her neck or stroke her arm, but that's a Marc thing. (If we tether, you know she might hear that kinda thing.) Steven sniffs, and retaliates by doing something more innocuous, rubbing between her shoulderblades a little instead.

"I'm game if you two are, you know that," he says aloud. "I've been trying to poke Marc into doing something about it all the way back here."

"That feels nice," she murmurs, relaxing a little further under his touch. She contemplates, briefly, just putting her head down on the table, and decides that the way today's been going, she'd probably fall asleep and wind up on the floor with interesting new bruises.

No, she'll salvage what few scraps of dignity she can.

"Are you hoping I'll gang up on him with you, or d'you just think I'm the easier one to talk around?"

"Maybe a bit of both," Steven admits, keeping his hand moving on her back, petting carefully. "I do think you're more likely to be reasonable than he is." (Hey. It's true, Marc. Doesn't mean you oughta just say it like that.) "And I think you care about him enough to try to help me, too. Though seeing you hurting is making a lot of my case for me, right now." He maybe sounds a little smug.

"Not exactly the way I wanted to do this," Layla says, which is true enough. She might have been willing to use her own well being as a lever if she needed to, but given her preference...

Well, given her preference, this wouldn't be necessary at all. Barring that, she might as well ask for a vast hoard of wealth, a way home, and a pony if she's wishing for impossible things. One for each of them.

"Was there a way you wanted to do it?" Steven asks, a little uncertainly. He isn't the husband, after all. Technically. He's not the one she's already actually discussed this with. "I mean, I guess if you wanted Marc to ask, I could try to get him out here instead."

"Not injured," she says. "Bit less like a shotgun wedding, maybe. I wasn't expecting things to escalate this quickly."

She lifts her head enough to give him a small smile over her shoulder. It's meant to be reassuring. Mostly, it comes out a little pained.

"I'm not going to demand that Marc asks me for something he doesn't want. That's just cruel. But if I'm going to help you make your case, I am going to need you to get him out here."

That makes Marc all but elbow his way out, leaving Steven going, (Ow, Marc!) just behind their eyes.

Marc's hand closes on the back of her neck instead of her back. He can't let her think that he doesn't want her. "You're not making me do something I don't want. Okay? Don't think like that. Either of you."

She twitches a little in surprise at the sudden shift of his grip, and straightens just enough that she can free one of her hands to reach up and cover his.

"Does that mean you're ready to call it?" she asks, thumb gently stroking the space between his middle and index fingers.

While he's still nervous, still half-sure she'll regret it, he also knows if she tethered with anyone else he'd hate himself, and probably whoever else she chose. And she and Steven are suffering for the wait. The experiment's done, and this tethering thing is clearly affecting off-worlders, too. It's time.

So he doesn't even sound reluctant when he finally caves: "Yeah, I'm ready to call it. Steven, you're right. As usual." (Thank you!)

"We should get that on a t-shirt," Layla suggests, a thin thread of weary humour working its way into her voice. "Might save some time in the future."

She shuts her eyes again, thoughts feeling like they're moving at half-speed. "They like their ceremony here, but from what I've read, it doesn't actually require anything more than an experienced mage. There are a few places in the Mages' Sector we can go and have it done on our own time. Bet Steven has the list memorized."

Because it's magic, and it's interesting, and apparently he's been arguing for this.

(My tutor could do it!)

Marc starts laughing wearily. "Of course she could. --He says his teacher could do it. The one who just kicked him out for not being able to focus."

(We could even go right now!)

"He's apparently not interested in ceremony, either," he adds.

(Well, I mean... you already got married. You don't need to do that again.)

"And you're afraid we'll change our minds if we don't do it right now," Marc accuses. Steven's guilty silence makes him laugh again, but it's kind of defeated as well as amused. He kneads at the back of Layla's neck gently. "Well, what do you say, Layla?"

She groans softly at the gentle pressure of his fingers - yes, more of that, please. It's a moment before she answers. "I think I should probably get dressed."

Which sounds like a tremendous amount of effort at the moment - no small part of the reason she's not interested in ceremony, though participating in a cultural practice of that much import would normally fascinate her. Still, she pauses a moment, then asks, "Are you interested in ceremony?"

It's not a tease. They're both intensely practical people most of the time, but neither of them is entirely without a sentimental streak.

He laughs a little. "Yeah, you probably gotta be dressed," he agrees. He'll help, when they get to that point. They've got a few minutes, surely, where he can massage the back of her neck and he can think about her question.

He does think about it. He knows he wouldn't say no if Layla actually wanted one, thinks that maybe it'd be another balm on the uncertainty that he's actually worth it for her, but much more important is the nerves he's getting from Steven. "I actually think it'd make Steven uncomfortable," he finally says, and Steven's embarrassed, (It's fine!) proves him right. "So might be a good idea to just go to his person. She's familiar."

The tension seeps slowly out of her, stiff muscles easing - which isn't precisely an incentive to get up any time soon. If she doesn't move, it almost doesn't hurt.

But none of them are going to get any better if they wait.

"All right," she says. "Let's go see his friend, then."

"I'll get you your shirt," Marc suggests as he sets down the ice pack. But he bends down first, hand on the back of the chair for support against a moment of vertigo, and then kisses her temple.

"Thanks," she says, and reaches up to stroke his cheek with the side of her free hand before he has a chance to straighten again.

"I love you." It comes out soft and solemn, half a promise.

It's a promise he hopes she can keep, once she's connected directly to his messed up head. "I love you, too," he answers her quietly, then withdraws to find that shirt.

He walks hand in hand with her to Steven's tutor, he knows the way since he's walked it himself before before Steven was ready to come out. But Steven is getting increasingly agitated behind his eyes as they approach. (You okay, buddy? I'm fine. It's fine. I'm just-- let me talk to her first, yeah? Layla? No, you twit, Visindy! My teacher! What? Why? In case having two of us in here affects the tether!)

"Huh. Yeah, okay," he says out loud that time, sounding a little nervous, himself. "Apparently you gotta wait outside a minute," he adds, for Layla's benefit. "Steven wants to, uh. Introduce me first. In case that affects anything."

"Huh," Layla says. "Yeah, that's a good thought."

She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, and brings it up so she can press a kiss against the back of it. "You two do what you need to do. Promise I won't wander off and get lost looking at street art."

It had happened once, in early days, when she hadn't known why he would sometimes vanish, or turn up late.

"You do that, Steven will send one of his magic hands after you, and you don't want that," Marc warns, only about half-teasing. But he squeezes her hand, back, then steps back inside his head, and Steven steps forward, and Steven gives her a goofy, slightly nervous grin, squeezes again, then lets go and hurriedly shuffles inside.

There's not really too long to wait, and there's a window in the front of the mage's shop that shows Steven heading into the back to where a large woman is waiting behind the counter. He goes from wringing his hands to gesturing wildly to clasping them again over the span of five minutes, though it's too far and the glass is too thick to tell what the woman's expression is. She, unlike Steven, doesn't gesture much, though she does cross her arms over her chest a couple times, and once her fingers start to crook like they might cast a spell, but then relax.

Then Marc is back in front and poking his head outside the door of the shop to beckon Layla in. "Apparently it doesn't matter so we did all that for nothing," he grumbles, half under his breath, but all to Layla.

Normally, Layla would wander down the street a little while she waits, not far enough to vanish from sight, just enough to get a feel for the neighbourhoond, and not feel like she's hovering. Today, however, the thought of going a step further than she absolutely needs to fills her with a vague sense of dread, and so she watches through the window as Steven presumably explains himself and Marc, and how they're nothing like the Sylphid.

Not without concern, for more reason than just what looks from her side of the window like the momentary possibility of a magical brawl. It's a relief when Marc emerges, and she steps forward to take his hand, rising up on the balls of her feet to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth before she steps inside.

"At least you know now," she says.

"That's what Steven said," Marc sighs, and draws her in after him, towards the lady in the back. She's taller than he is, and broader too, and Marc finds her deeply intimidating. For some reason Steven adores her. Ugh.

Though she gives them both a narrow look, in the end, she looks more satisfied than suspicious. "Took you long enough," she says, unfolding her arms. "You both look peaky. Come along, then." She turns and heads into the back room of the shop, where there's a magic circle set up with a little altar in the middle.

Layla pastes on a smile in the face of that scrutiny, the one she typically uses to convince paranoid smugglers not to shoot her. It seems, just a little, like that kind of situation.

The magic circle and the alter prick at her curiosity, but she takes them in without remark. Later, she might come back on her own time to ask about them, about which elements are necessary and which are tradition. Right now, the only halfway intelligent question she can muster is, "What do we need to do for this to work properly?"

"Stand here. Hold hands. Both hands," she instructs, pointing to the spot inside the innermost circle, right in front of the altar. "Do you have words you'd like to say to each other that we can incorporate?"

"Uh." Marc glances at Layla in askance, since he certainly hadn't planned on it, but he could make something up....

Layla steps carefully into the circle, as instructed, and offers Marc her other hand. "Yeah," she says quietly. "I have a few things I'd like to say."

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