2goodarms | [Daemon AU] first meetings, revisited

[Daemon AU] first meetings, revisited

They've been here...he isn't sure how long. A couple days, maybe. Someone took him to the infirmary to bandage his arm and clean up the cuts littering his face and hand; unthinking, the doctor tried to shoo Joanna away, and -- taboo be damned -- they were so furious that she almost sunk her teeth into his arm.

(Joanna wasn't supposed to be here at all after the explosion ripped them apart. Like hell is anyone going to separate them, even if only by a measure of two feet.)

She would've gone for his daemon, but barely anybody here seems to have a daemon. A low-level horror built up around them like radio static when they realized what they were seeing. But all the daemon-less people act like nothing's wrong. It's not intercision -- their daemons don't exist at all, like they're hidden so deep inside them that they'll never be born. To most of Milliways, Curtis and Joanna are the bizarre ones.

It's almost enough for him to stop noticing how relaxed everyone is. How nice the bar is. How it's like someone picked up the entire Front and dropped it into a single room, with everything anyone could ever want, no questions asked, no payment necessary.

Almost.

For now, they're sticking to a couch by the fireplace, Joanna curled tight in Curtis' lap as they watch the bar in silence.

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Iudaan crosses the threshold into the Bar and mutters, "Ooo, this place again." He lifts his nose and takes a deep whiff, his ears flicking as he scans the room. "Library? Or... meadow?"

"Bar, first," Dejah says, dragging a hand through her hair. "We need to eat, remember?"

"Oh yes, right." He's halfway to the bar when he veers off course, wide dark eyes fixed on the human male on the couch. The human male with a daemon curled up in his lap. "Hey, Dejah."

She's already turning to look at whatever's caught his attention. "Shall we go say hello?"

He's ahead of her, padding on eight quiet feet towards the couches in front of the fire. He pauses at the end of the rug, almost standing on his tiptoes, trying to see what the little black ball of fur is.

...There's another daemon.

Joanna starts to sigh in relief, but stops when Curtis gets a better look at the cat. Its legs seem to be moving too fast for its body; not until it's halfway through the bar -- close enough for Curtis to focus properly -- does he notice what's wrong. It's not speed. Eight legs moving all at once, from a distance, looks like four legs moving very quickly.

Christ.

Joanna uncurls enough to watch the mutated daemon's approach. She bares her teeth in a halfhearted hiss, like the posturing of a wounded animal; neither of them notice the woman behind Iudaan yet.

Iudaan's eyes go wide and he turns to shoot a look at Dejah. That sound. That sound. In a flash, they share an image of Rebecca, John Carter's boar, exhausted and cranky as ever, telling them both to go take a long walk in the desert.

Iudaan looks back, wide-eyed and curious. His head drops but his gaze doesn't, and his short tail swishes from side to side. "My apologies," he starts. "I didn't mean to intrude. We've just never seen another daemon in the bar before. I'm Iudaan."

"And I'm Dejah. Dejah Thoris." Dejah steps up behind the sorak and drops a hand to idly stroke his head. She's dressed in a vaguely Roman floor length gown made of a natural colored raw silk, that leaves her arms and shoulders bare. Her dark hair is piled on her head and secured with simple gold pins. There are intricate tattoos marking her left cheek from temple to jaw, and the same motif is echoed across her chest, shoulders, and down her arms. Her most striking feature is her eyes; they're a vivid cobalt blue, almost glowing as if lit from within.

"You forget, Iudaan, humans have never seen a creature like you before. Iudaan is a sorak. One of the smaller feline predator species on Barsoom." Her voice is deep for a woman's, her accent posh English but not. Her tone is gentle, but it's clear, she's tired and not looking to cause any trouble.

Edited 2015-07-22 15:43 (UTC)

Two sets of eyes dart over the pair in swift assessment. Front. Unquestionably Front, dressed like somebody used to spending time in a car with heat, like the revelers just before the engine. She carries herself like she's never had to worry about somebody accidentally touching her daemon. Probably wouldn't even bother looking at Curtis if he didn't have a daemon, he thinks.

Joanna's still bristling, lips curled to reveal a sliver of teeth. (She has quite a lot of them.) It's almost worse than the people without daemons. She has one, but it's wrong.

"Where the fuck's Barsoom?" he asks bluntly.

"Oh this should be delightful," the sorak mutters, his whiskers twisted in a wry grin. Iudaan decides, now is an excellent time to stretch. His front four paws reach far out in front of him and his backside stays high as he does. His toes spread wide as he shivers through the full body stretch. It ends somehow with him two feet closer than he was before, though now, he's seems more interested in washing his face, ears pricked and listening to every word.

Dejah studies them, a bit perplexed at what she's done to warrant that response. Her own gaze takes in the two of them, as quick as a blink. Thin. Malnourished. A hunted look in their eyes. The man's clothes are tattered and worn, patched many times. The badger's coat looks dull and she's thin enough for it to show. Her tone gentles and for a brief moment, a look of pain washes over her features. So many things to love about humans. And so much to hate about how they treat their people.

"If you are from Jasoom -- Earth, I mean," most patrons are, "then we are from Mars. I'm sorry, would you like us to leave you two alone? We only wanted to say hello."

Joanna exhales a long, weary breath. "Of course you are," she mutters, lowering her head back to her paws.

Of fucking course this place has people from Mars walking around.

Curtis digs his fingers into her fur, weighing their options. The doctor who patched them up said one of the big rules was no violence. He doesn't expect anyone to follow it -- and that drapey robe, while sleeveless, leaves a lot of room to hide a couple knives -- but sometimes, if you're Front, you get complacent. She might not expect anyone from the Tail to fight her.

And she has a daemon Joanna can bite, if this turns ugly.

"You wanna stay, you can stay," he says. "Doesn't matter."

"Oh on the contrary, it matters very much," Iudaan says. "Very much indeed."

"Iudaan," Dejah says, her voice quiet. "Come, let us get something to eat. We won't bother you any longer. Have a good evening."

Even as tired as she is, she walks with her head held high. She makes her way back to the bar and looks fairly awkward trying to shift her long skirts so she can sit on a bar stool.

Iudaan is a little more reluctant to follow, his head up, watching them both with wide gold eyes. He tries to be less than direct about it, but it's clear, he's fascinated with the both of them. He looks back at them one more time before the crowd swallows them up.

Neither Curtis nor Joanna look away until they've vanished into the crowd. Then Joanna turns her attention up to Curtis.

"We could probably take them," she whispers.

"I know."

Joanna throws a glance toward the spot where Iudaan disappeared. "How the fuck does somebody from Mars get a daemon, too?"

Curtis shrugs. Then, even softer: "Why'd she say it matters?"

Joanna's silent, the shared thought thrumming along their link. She's Front. Nobody Front cares if they're hurting the Tail.

Three minutes later, Curtis thumps down at the seat next to Dejah, Joanna taking up sentry directly beneath his barstool.

"There's a couple other people with daemons around here," he says with no preamble. "Haven't talked to 'em. But I've seen them."

Iudaan is curled under Dejah's feet, which puts him behind Joanna. He very quietly lays his chin on his paws, his eyes still wide with obvious and almost childlike fascination. He stretches again, just one paw, until it stops just beside Joanna.

Dejah turns to Curtis, surprised but with a smile of quiet delight. "Are we starting over? I would like that very much, if we could start over."

Joanna eyes the extended paw, but unlike before, she doesn't snarl. Warily, she bends closer to try and get a whiff of Iudaan.

Curtis hitches his right shoulder in a shrug. (The remains of his left arm started hurting once the adrenaline wore off; even though the explosion cauterized the wound, the whole stump aches too much to move his left shoulder.) "Yeah, I guess."

Beat.

"I'm Curtis, that's Joanna."

"Hello, Curtis. I'm Dejah. That's Iudaan."

Under her chair, Iudaan's long whiskers flair wide but he doesn't move. "Hello, Joanna," he says, "pleasure to meet you."

Dejah rolls her eyes, her smile quiet and genuine. A moment passes and her lips thin as she tries to find the words. And then she just comes out with it. "Have you had that wound tended to? You know, they have an infirmary here. I could show you?"

"Hey," says Joanna to Iudaan, guardedly.

"Yeah, somebody looked at it when we got here," Curtis says. "It's gonna heal fine. Eventually."

All Curtis has to do is keep it clean, and with all the free running water here (Jesus), that shouldn't be too hard. They just have to remember they have that water.

"Eventually?" She sounds stunned at this revelation. "Why did they not heal you entirely?"

Iudaan's ears swivel as far forward as possible. "What are you? I've never seen a creature like you before."

Edited 2015-07-23 03:29 (UTC)

"I'm a honey badger," she says. "How come you've got eight legs?"

Curtis shakes his head in faint amusement at Joanna. Then, to Dejah: "There's not a lot more they can do. It got cauterized. There's a bunch of other shit they fixed with...something. I don't know what it was."

Something out of a movie. Free for anyone to use, any injury healed within seconds like it was never there at all. Under his stool, Joanna digs her claws into the floor.

"Well, I thought six legs was too few, but ten legs? That would would have been far too many." Iudaan's sarcasm has a playful edge to it, light and sharp. He glances up at Dejah, and shifts so he can rest his head on the top of her foot, his eyes closing for a moment.

"Surely if it's causing you pain, it isn't healed yet. Bar?" She speaks directly to the empty space. "Do you -- can you get me a pot of the Thark healing salve, please?" A small, rough thrown pot about the size of a coffee mug appears on the bar, the top covered in a rough skin wrap that's tied on with a length of catgut twine. The whole thing is sealed with a layer of dusty red wax.

"Here, take this. It smells terrible but I've seen it knit bone and tendon, heal penetration wounds with significant tissue damage, and it works wonders for the pain of old scars. I have a..." she gestures with one hand down near her hip, "an old battle scar, and when it becomes uncomfortable, a few days of putting this on it, first thing in the morning, and it remembers it's supposed to be flesh not rawhide."

"And don't get it anywhere near your mouth," Iudaan adds, curling his lips in a melodramatic expression of disgust.

Despite themselves, Joanna lets out a tiny snort of laughter at Iudaan's remark. Half an instant later, all humor's gone from both her and Curtis.

He stares at the jar, a faint ringing in his ears, as Joanna presses herself flatter against the floor. Her back rises and falls with the rapid pace of her breathing. Curtis doesn't make any more to take the salve.

"What do you want for it?"

She has no reason to give them anything. None. There has to be a catch.

Iudaan lies flat too, chin on the ground, but more so he can be nose to nose with Joanna, his entire demeanor radiating nothing but concern. "It's all right," he murmurs, quiet and warm.

Dejah blinks in confusion, clearly taken aback by his distress. "Nothing. Nothing at all. I just -- wanted to help."

"No, it's not," she says, backing away, her fur starting to rise on end.

Overlapping his daemon, quieter but no less vehement, Curtis asks: "Why?"

Iudaan stays flat, eyes wide, as if he's trying to make himself small as possible. The only movement is the quiet twitch at the very tip of his tail.

Dejah draws herself up straight in the chair, her lips pressing into a thin line, half concern, half indignation. "Because I want to. If you don't want to use it, fine, I'm not about to force you. But I'm not in the habit of seeing someone in need and walking passed without trying to help."

She's trying to imagine what kind of world he came from where everything comes at so steep a price. She's not liking what she's seeing, not in the least.

Curtis' face works.

It's only been a couple days, maybe, since Yona tore up the engine room floor. Since they found Timmy, and, for a horrified moment, Curtis thought Wilford had sliced the child's daemon away to better turn him into the perfect engine part. She was so far in the bowels of the engine that no one could reach her. Joanna had to dive into the heat of the endless rotating parts, farther than their tether had extended in decades, and drag out Timmy's daemon as the gears screamed against Curtis' arm.

There's always a fucking catch. The Tail works with the Front. The children slip into the engine. The adults are slaughtered. All so the closed ecosystem can keep running ceaselessly on its neverending tracks.

Very small, Joanna says, "I don't understand," as Curtis lowers his face to his hand and struggles to breathe.

Edited 2015-07-23 23:25 (UTC)

Both Iudaan and Dejah move in concert, slow enough to be non-threatening, but still without hesitation.

Dejah's edge melts away at his distress. "I'm sorry," Dejah says, her palm lighting on his good arm, just a gentle touch. "Curtis, what's the matter?"

Iudaan moves to lie beside Joanna, speaking at the same time, "We didn't mean any harm. Truly." If she'll let him, he'll curl around her, not touching but in a protective gesture.

"You're Front," says Joanna, despairing. "Why are you doing this?"

But she doesn't move away from Iudaan, and Curtis doesn't shrink back from Dejah's touch. He's lost beyond words for the moment: Joanna will have to do the talking for both of them.

"The Front doesn't do shit like this unless they want something."

"We don't understand. What is this Front?" Iudaan asks, his tone gentle. "Can you please explain it to us?"

Dejah turns fully to face Curtis, her hands resting on his arm, letting him know she's not going anywhere, not until they want her to.

Joanna gulps, working with Curtis to bring themselves under control. She curls into a lump of fur, much like she was when Dejah and Iudaan first spotted her; her back presses lightly against Iudaan.

"The front of the train," she says, low. "We lived in the tail for eighteen years."

Once she crosses that line, Iudaan arranges himself so that his entire body is curled all the way around her, his chin resting across her back.

Dejah's hand squeezes his arm lightly. "A train," she whispers, her mind skimming over the memories of John's sketches. He'd drawn the train station in Virginia, and the views out the car windows. How they could even begin to live on a land transport, she has no clue, but the idea that they were relegated to the Tail strikes hard.

"The. Train." Eighteen years in a cage. Relegated to the lowest strata of whatever bizarre society, given only scraps. Neglected. Abused so much that even a hand extended in assistance is cringed from like it's a fist.

"Eighteen years," Iudaan murmurs, "is too long to be caged."

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