#8

[rank1]

[The recording flickers on to the ground, and the toes of red and white skater shoes, flanked by the tattered hems of a pair of jeans. The camera sways, the recorder's attention elsewhere, and there's a peek at a pair of sleek stiletto high heels on a woman's feet. Off-screen, Travis sniggers –– he just can't help it. When he speaks, he's thoroughly self-satisfied:]

Play nice, okay?

[When the camera is finally pulled up, it drags along a pair of long, stockinged legs until it's fixed on a beautiful young woman with long blonde hair. Rouged cheeks, long lashes, the whole package –– she pouts for the camera like a pro. She's wearing a blouse with bishop sleeves and what would normally be a pussybow collar, but it's worn open to the ribs, low enough to reveal the gore of her bra. (It might be a little familiar.)

She is flesh and blood and bone. No foam to be found here.]

What do you think of the ship so far, Sylvia? Sweet digs, right?

[Sylvia tosses her hair over her shoulder, rolling her eyes. When she speaks, it’s with a French accent and an attitude.]

It is a prison. I’ve seen worse. One of you had better be a trained manicurist!

[Travis scoffs and wheels the camera around so he's in the shot, too. He reaches an arm out to her. She checks her nails and sighs before stepping under Travis’s arm, wrapping her own around him and resting her head against his chest. She pouts, turning big doe eyes up at him.]

At least I have you, darling. You’ll protect me, right?

[Travis's eyes widen briefly, but he doubles down to declare:]

Of course, baby. Best ten tickets I ever spent.

[Yes, this is the most obnoxious video the network will ever have. Fortunately, it is over: the feed cuts off there. Just be glad Travis isn't into PDA.




And no, Travis has not become a VFX specialist. Sylvia, a flesh and blood human being who is totally not someone else, can be found with Travis around the ship. Maybe you'll catch them eating lunch together with food taken from the mess hall, with Travis waving down anyone who shows even a glimmer of interest to introduce his wife. Maybe you've stepped into the observatory and found them on a weird little "date", arguing about the multiverse –– Travis seems to approach the subject from a purely sci-fantasy approach, while Sylvia's take is more grounded in reality. Or you've just stepped into the gym, and here's Sylvia bored as Travis lifts increasingly heavy things in an attempt to impress her. Or just around!! You do you!! In-person meetings may happen before the network post because William is gonna come down on Travis' ass ASAP after this post.]

Comments

[shiftedshape]

As Loki follows William away, he's struck by how similar this feels to getting a scolding from his mother. Norns, he really regressed, didn't he?

He listens attentively to William, which is clear in the myriad emotions passing over his face at every word. This is humiliating. William is right-- he shouldn't need to be told to be better than the wardens on the Barge.

But maybe he isn't.

When William asks what he has to offer, that's where his mind lands. Maybe nothing. Maybe this was a mistake, just as much as Malekith's presence feels like a mistake. He scrubs a hand over his face, takes a deep breath to try and force himself to think of something. Something that makes him worthwhile.

William really couldn't have asked a more difficult question. Honestly, the thing that begins drawing him out of the self-loathing spiral is the fact that he feels ashamed rather than insulted and enraged. That's...something. That's proof that he has become less of a unrepentant asshole, at the least.

Tentatively, eyes flicking between William's and the floor, he starts, "Well. Experience, like you said. Knowledge of the worst I've seen, both in inmates and wardens." He licks his lips. "And with how floods and ports can go, I can fight. I can get people out of the way of danger." A hesitation, then, "And, respectfully, though this--" He gestures vaguely around the room and back at Travis. "--was misguided, perhaps a sense of humor is exactly what some inmates need. You know how self-serious some of them are. It's...good, to laugh at yourself, sometimes. It humbles you."

He's not going to be laughing about this anytime soon, but it was part of the initial idea. Tease someone into recognizing their faults when pointing them out directly would only lead to defensiveness. It worked. Sometimes. He's certainly feeling humbled, particularly given he had been so dedicated to ignoring Malekith's presence that he hadn't really considered how he would react if Loki was caught doing this.

"I think...I think that might be the main thing, actually. For both of us, really. Proof that you can improve enough to get your second chance, but you still fuck up and have to try again. So if you fuck up while you're an inmate, it doesn't mean you're a lost cause." He meets William's gaze more steadily, now. "I didn't think I was capable of graduating, at first, but I managed. So, maybe not a role model, exactly, but. An example."

He cocks his head and raises an eyebrow as he points out, "Besides, if wardens were meant to be infallible, I doubt the Navarch would have hired the literal devil."

[omniavincit]

William tries to keep Travis in his periphery, but his gaze doesn't waver from Loki—let him fucking squirm. His expression yields nothing as he listens, clamping down on his impatience with every nervous tic and hesitation. If there's consolation to be found, it's in the fact that he does listen, absorb what's said.

He doesn't agree with some of it—most of it. But it's an argument, better than Loki telling William what he thinks he wants to hear. Far better than a warden who doesn't think about these things at all.

“They're not the joke,” he says, his voice tight. “And you should try talking to them before you go playing Lear's fucking fool. It's not as flashy and you don't get anywhere near the attention, but who cares? If it means they spend one less month here.” He breathes out, looks over to Travis.

“Okay. In the name of fucking up and trying again, I want you to go to Warden Command”—he points down the hall—“and write a report on this shit you pulled. I'm gonna talk to the Navarch about your powers.”

He almost turns to go, stops himself at the last moment. “I know it's a lot of pressure, but it's invaluable, what you can give them. It could make all the difference.”

[shiftedshape]

Loki's eyes widen. "My pow--" he begins, but stops when William speak again, immediately feeling chastened. This isn't about him. He takes a deep breath and nods.

"Understood." And then, hesitantly, he adds, "Thank you, William."

It's sincere, but it's all he can manage at the moment.

[omniavincit]

William nods—it's slight—and flicks a glance toward Warden Command. Then he turns away and paces toward his inmate, his attention shifting to Travis; no need to watch Loki slink off with his tail between his legs.

“I didn't tell him to apologize, so if he does...” A shrug. “It's from him.” He eyes Travis a moment—stymied as ever by the omnipresent sunglasses. How the fuck are they still on?

“I'm taking it away,” he says without relish. Subdued. “This is lunacy.” He looks Travis over again, mouth twisting into something between a wince and a frown. “It didn't bother you? What he did?”

[rank1]

Travis lets William come to him, posture straightening a little on approach. Bizarre how having a warden can make you feel like more boy than man, even if just for the gut-churning instant it takes before sense kicks in and you remember you're a fucking adult because of the time investment alone.

"The first one didn't pass muster, huh?" Travis says. He feels like he's looking at a pair of Sylvia's expensive-ass shoes neatly arranged on the floor of the closet they'd briefly shared, trying to figure out what the hell the difference could be from a cheap pair. Whatever it is, classier people have it figured out.

The news about his foam wife doesn't surprise him, and arguing feels like a waste of time; if William's willing to dress down another warden, no way he's gonna get away with shit. But if there's no room for bargaining, he's still gonna curl his lip about it, narrow his eyes behind those bright lenses.

"What's the point in getting pissed about it?" he replies, carelessly. "She'd pull the same shit, so he might as well get points for making it convincing. What are you going to do with her?"

The foam wife, not Loki.

[omniavincit]

He hasn't thought about the matter of storage—doesn't consider it too deeply aside from the image of a scantly clad foam dummy propped beside Loki as he makes his report. Not Warden Command. “Put her in my cabin. Not,” he adds, a warning note in his voice, “the bed.”

They could head to the dorms now, collect her, but—stupid as the thought is—he'd rather talk to Travis alone. He wrestles with the other question a moment: he is grateful Travis didn't try to bash Loki's head in. Doesn't want to foster resentment. They'd have loved Travis on the Barge—chatty, forgiving, easy to take advantage of—and would have made no attempt to change that.

“You used her body. Both of you. You flaunted it on the network.” Simple and grim. He tracks Travis' eyes behind those glasses as if they're fish in a bowl. “You turned her into a joke.”

[rank1]

Her chatter about manicures and the exact places he was allowed to put his hands only felt like a joke at first, when it was a prelude to setting up some sucker to get hacked apart, but there's a twinge of shame in a defence like that. It feels shitty before anything even comes out of his mouth, but he's never been one to bite his tongue.

"You don't know her," Travis replies, and he looks away for a moment. "Maybe she doesn't dress like that in public as much anymore but she'd be pulling this shit all on her own if she was here."