Flew the Coop

[l3wt]

James could never be sure what other people meant, exactly, when they implied something to the effect of "living well." To him, it meant being - for lack of a better term - squared away. Neatly organized necessities taken apart, arranged just so, inspected, attended, put back together, then out of sight. Rinse and repeat.

A place to rest your head and belongings. Belongings were expendable, and as a result, few. Enough to eat. Space enough for at least, privacy, or something close enough to it. The ability to pick up, move, and settle into the restless routine of going somewhere else.

There was only one item, one truly non-negotiable bulletpoint, placed just under the header in a blocky red-letter font ahead of everything else:

JADE.

The artificial intelligence instance embedded within the byzantine computing architecture that comprised his hardsuit's "spine". Once, a whole. This one, alone. James still, in silence, hoped that he could do more for her than keep her alive, functional.

An obligation she'd never asked of him, a debt he'd shouldered without question.

What Sarah would consider "living well", was becoming very clear with every second he spent in her penthouse, he'd stopped briefly just beyond the doors just to soak it in.

The Barrier's deep, swirling shades of blues and purples bathed the space, gently hushed the walls, strung soft contrasts in shadows from what remained of the decor. The world was cast in a light that tolerated everything save for unease. Even the packed up boxes looked like they were about to contentedly sigh.

He quietly told Sarah the place was lovely, and this had been sincere. He was almost grateful for the disarray of a move, however.

Hearing that Leslie was doing well was heartening. Satisfying, in the way only a welcome lack of a surprise could be, because Leslie had done something neither he nor Sarah had managed:

Leslie had thought long term.

Once upon a time, she'd tried convincing James to stop and think, suggesting -

His eyes followed Sarah a little longer than he might have intended as she bounced off towards the kitchen part of the space. Her loping walk transitioned into the barely-there gravity like she'd been born in it.

- suggesting none too subtly that he'd be much better off, if he stopped charging at windmills.

He hadn't listened, of course.

While Sarah busies herself - James decides to set down his bags - and begins the process of wrenching himself out of the suit. It's an ungainly array of seals, seams and careful balancing acts - but each motion is as economical and thoughtless as a manufacturing robot, and he's got the entire sequence down to about thirty seconds. It used to take minutes. By the time Sarah can return, he's already on the deck - fatigue pants and a thin black zip-up closed all the way to the throat. The shell he'd extricated himself from remains standing, still supported by its own frame - cradling the front chestplate rigidly. When Sarah perches on the foldout, he does the same along the opposite end. Accepts the proffered bowl, and jabs the chopsticks into it as he considers the question. Forced himself to just pick at the noodles. If he didn't, they'd be scarfed down with the complete disregard only a chow hall can teach.

"Border Worlds is probably for the best. Don't really care that all that much about who exactly we do business with, though-" His brows pinch a fraction. "Maybe keep away from House eyes, if we can? I don't believe they'll pay me much mind, but on the off chance a database flags something, I'd like to avoid anybody coming to knock. I have only one dealbreaker- " The tone does not brook even the faintest possibility of argument. "No Gauls." He moves on before the statement has time to linger.

"Other than that, I say we just pick a direction, pick a contract and start burning fuel. I'm guessing you have an idea of what Windward is best rigged for. I could help sniff something out," He skewers a tiny piece of green onion on the end of one of the sticks as he considers. "If you don't have anything lined up? I did live here a while." He avoids mentioning that anybody he used to work for while he was running freelance - mug's game, that - was probably already dead, awful, or out of business. But it was about as good a shot as he had - one way or another he was going to help.

A third voice chimes in, smooth and melodious, piping out from the collar of the incomplete mannequin hovering nearby.

"No. There are better uses for James than that, Captain." James shoots the motionless suit a look. She didn't usually gainsay him with a flat no. And, 'Captain'. She wasn't wrong, exactly. But he had the suspicion she was just trying to be funny again. He blinked, waited for it.

"He could do with some exercise. There is only one thing every shipyard that issues a Dunlin iteration agrees on. After retrofit, inspect visually, and in detail."

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