"Do you?" Hello, there's a Hermes peeping at her through the wondrous technology of the tablets. "If you don't, or if you're not sure, I can totally help you out. I'm a helper, a friend to those who wander."
Oh, a person. Zorya smiles, faintly, tossing her hair (all its insane curliness) and steps out into the Sanctuary proper.
"I was thinking I'd get started with the wandering. But if you've got a little help to give, I'm sure I won't turn it down, especially since I have absolutely no fucking idea where I am."
Her voice goes from airy, in as much as its tone can be, to ice-cold and razor-sharp for that italicized turn of phrase, and then reverts again. None of that sharpness is directed specifically at Hermes, and she curiously seems anything but suspicious of his motives, but how she seems and what she thinks are two very disparate things.
"You're in Taxon, it's relatively safe in the way that monsters are unlikely to appear and eat you, but it's not really 'normal either'. I can't really place it on a map in relation to anything else, because as far as I know, there isn't anything else. And I'm Hermes." With a sunny disposition and easy smile, Hermes doesn't seem the least be affected by her occasionally sharp tone.
The similarity to his own entrance - handcuffs - is most of what draws Ethan's attention, although pretty brunettes who look like they might be crazy as shit can usually do that without any help from steel accessories.
Zorya tips her head to the side, eying the tablet screen with mild, incredulous amusement for a split-second. Then she just smiles.
"Did you want me to share?" It doesn't take much guessing to figure out what he means, and she lifts her hand to display the dangling cuffs. "Because I promise, I'm not really very attached to them besides in the immediate, annoyingly physical sense."
Oh, Ethan, you exude 'not to be trusted,' but at least Zorya finds this intensely familiar. She exhales and stretches her arms up above her head (tablet picture going temporarily a bit odd), with a languid little noise, as though this ain't no thing and she's very idly contemplating whether she really needs the help.
"Having thought about it," she says, drawing the tablet closer again, "I do have a knack for the persuasion. What's your currency, kind stranger? All I've got is my gratitude, but I am damn charming. More so in person, though."
That is quite the visual the other end. Zorya just grins, though, a touch wild, meandering out of the Sanctuary. "Well," she says, thoughtfully, "I think these little things might do the trick in that regard, they look awfully interesting. Been here long, stranger?"
If she can handle the Arrival Room, she can withstand his classic good looks, he is sure.
"Not as long as some. You're in a city called Taxon, among a select population brought here to do fuck-all that we can tell for the benefit of some unknown but fairly all-powerful force. Happily, they are invested in keeping us all safe and relatively happy. Unhappily, we can't leave."
Zorya can appreciate difference in aesthetic! She decides that first things first, she needs a change of clothes, and she's been told those hatches can be useful.
"If that isn't evocative of livestock in a pen." Fat cattle, etc. "I'm sure there have been escape attempts."
"Was that Hungarian?" Dick inquires with polite interest. From the looks of it, he is inside, but what's visible of the room looks pretty bare. "It's a shame I can only converse with like, little kids. Oh, and "
His accent isn't atrocious, but it's flat and American nonetheless.
"It was, indeed," she confirms, debating picking that as her origin (of lies) but deciding not to mention it anyway--it looks too fake to give information unasked-for, "anyway, if you can manage that and maybe a taxi, you don't need a whole lot else. Unless you get into trouble?"
Zorya leaves that as a question. Maybe he does! Maybe she just likes playfully implying things about strangers.
Practically nothing, and Dick is instantly distracted by the question anyway, though the matter lurks in the back of his mind simply because there's not much to do in Taxon, when there aren't bombs going off.
He grins at her and shrugs with casualness that is a little bit exaggerated. "Maybe a little. Do you have any suggestions?"
Yes, Dick, engage in playful conversation instead of providing useful information. Then again, she seems confident enough, and he assumes she'll ask anything she wants to know.
She accomplishes switching the table screen's output to visual, which she approves of, she decides, more than projecting a hologram. He's very right about the questions, although apparently she's more interested in the banter presently, eying the screen with raised eyebrows.
"I might, but that could get me into trouble, and I'm sure I've already made one hell of a first impression." This seems to entertain her more than anything else, despite what she says. "Got a name, troublemaker?"
The question takes her aback for a moment - on the surface, anyway - and Zorya glances down at her dress, shrugging one shoulder.
"Mmm, this is not the best aesthetic I've ever had. I'm fine, but you're sweet to ask. This dress, however...probably ruined, isn't it?" She pairs that with a little blase smile, as if to say unfortunate, but what can you do? Alas, it's white, Roland Mouret, and cost thousands of dollars--not a recipe for longevity in a garment.
The hatches, of course, might be able to make her a new one, but Tara doesn't want to spring this information on her too quickly. "Maybe so; I'm sorry. But at least you're alright; the last guy who arrived was on fire. Well, a couple guys ago."
"I never wear the same cocktail dress twice, anyway," she declares, with a lazy little grin, "I'll get rid of this thing shortly. What happened to the on-fire guy?"
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Oh, a person. Zorya smiles, faintly, tossing her hair (all its insane curliness) and steps out into the Sanctuary proper.
"I was thinking I'd get started with the wandering. But if you've got a little help to give, I'm sure I won't turn it down, especially since I have absolutely no fucking idea where I am."
Her voice goes from airy, in as much as its tone can be, to ice-cold and razor-sharp for that italicized turn of phrase, and then reverts again. None of that sharpness is directed specifically at Hermes, and she curiously seems anything but suspicious of his motives, but how she seems and what she thinks are two very disparate things.
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"...well. Charmed to meet you, Hermes."
There's silence for a few seconds, as she drifts her fingers over the walls nearby, idle and interested.
"Is Taxon this whole building, or should I be thinking a little bigger?"
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The similarity to his own entrance - handcuffs - is most of what draws Ethan's attention, although pretty brunettes who look like they might be crazy as shit can usually do that without any help from steel accessories.
"Oh," he drawls, "and you got to keep yours."
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Zorya tips her head to the side, eying the tablet screen with mild, incredulous amusement for a split-second. Then she just smiles.
"Did you want me to share?" It doesn't take much guessing to figure out what he means, and she lifts her hand to display the dangling cuffs. "Because I promise, I'm not really very attached to them besides in the immediate, annoyingly physical sense."
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"I could be persuaded to help you with that," Ethan observes with studied nonchalance.
Reply
Oh, Ethan, you exude 'not to be trusted,' but at least Zorya finds this intensely familiar. She exhales and stretches her arms up above her head (tablet picture going temporarily a bit odd), with a languid little noise, as though this ain't no thing and she's very idly contemplating whether she really needs the help.
"Having thought about it," she says, drawing the tablet closer again, "I do have a knack for the persuasion. What's your currency, kind stranger? All I've got is my gratitude, but I am damn charming. More so in person, though."
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That is quite the visual the other end. Zorya just grins, though, a touch wild, meandering out of the Sanctuary. "Well," she says, thoughtfully, "I think these little things might do the trick in that regard, they look awfully interesting. Been here long, stranger?"
Reply
"Not as long as some. You're in a city called Taxon, among a select population brought here to do fuck-all that we can tell for the benefit of some unknown but fairly all-powerful force. Happily, they are invested in keeping us all safe and relatively happy. Unhappily, we can't leave."
Reply
Zorya can appreciate difference in aesthetic! She decides that first things first, she needs a change of clothes, and she's been told those hatches can be useful.
"If that isn't evocative of livestock in a pen." Fat cattle, etc. "I'm sure there have been escape attempts."
Reply
His accent isn't atrocious, but it's flat and American nonetheless.
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Whoops. She wonders how much he understood.
"It was, indeed," she confirms, debating picking that as her origin (of lies) but deciding not to mention it anyway--it looks too fake to give information unasked-for, "anyway, if you can manage that and maybe a taxi, you don't need a whole lot else. Unless you get into trouble?"
Zorya leaves that as a question. Maybe he does! Maybe she just likes playfully implying things about strangers.
Reply
He grins at her and shrugs with casualness that is a little bit exaggerated. "Maybe a little. Do you have any suggestions?"
Yes, Dick, engage in playful conversation instead of providing useful information. Then again, she seems confident enough, and he assumes she'll ask anything she wants to know.
Reply
She accomplishes switching the table screen's output to visual, which she approves of, she decides, more than projecting a hologram. He's very right about the questions, although apparently she's more interested in the banter presently, eying the screen with raised eyebrows.
"I might, but that could get me into trouble, and I'm sure I've already made one hell of a first impression." This seems to entertain her more than anything else, despite what she says. "Got a name, troublemaker?"
Reply
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The question takes her aback for a moment - on the surface, anyway - and Zorya glances down at her dress, shrugging one shoulder.
"Mmm, this is not the best aesthetic I've ever had. I'm fine, but you're sweet to ask. This dress, however...probably ruined, isn't it?" She pairs that with a little blase smile, as if to say unfortunate, but what can you do? Alas, it's white, Roland Mouret, and cost thousands of dollars--not a recipe for longevity in a garment.
Reply
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"I never wear the same cocktail dress twice, anyway," she declares, with a lazy little grin, "I'll get rid of this thing shortly. What happened to the on-fire guy?"
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