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Entry tags:
closed;
WHO: Viktor + The P
WHAT: a kind of entrance interview
WHEN: the day after this
WHERE: Research division office
NOTES: nerd alert
WHAT: a kind of entrance interview
WHEN: the day after this
WHERE: Research division office
NOTES: nerd alert
Viktor is early.
It's unclear by precisely how long, as clocks don't seem to be much of a thing here, but aiming for the break of lunch hour affords him enough time to look somewhat less obliterated by the climb to the Research office; whether or not he's encountered early depends on Tony's own comings and goings. Either way, early or otherwise, he may be found seated outside the door, a weary, bent shape who makes some effort to unbend and unweary himself when another person arrives. The crutch he holds like a staff at his side is a bespoke ergonomic affair, and the metal brace hugging his right leg is of similar character: designs of practical elegance. It takes him a second to stand.
"Provost Stark," he says, by way of greeting, and turns the crutch under his arm with fluid motor memory. His gentle voice, carrying an accent somewhere within the range of Slavic, belies the seriousness of his eyebrows. He does not offer a handshake. "Thank you for making the time."
For the usual reasons, one might assume: to establish whether this newest Rifter might be a suitable candidate for Research. To discuss the principles of your division, to quote his written request.
He's barely taller than Tony; his posture brings them a little less than even.
no subject
The promise of a lot of book reading is less attractive than one might assume. Viktor does have some of that fussy academic air about him, and while it's not an entirely false impression, there's only so much studying a man can do before his hands start to feel empty. He's not worried about it; if he starts to feel benched he can just exercise some of that go-getter spirit the Provost claims to value.
But big-picture values are of greater import than the book to build ratio, and he receives them, and weighs them, earnestly. What Tony says appeals directly to the most raw and frustrated part of him, the one freshly set with a barb—it's a single finger touching down to slow the desperate spinning, and the contact pinches at him.
Off that pinch, he says, "I won't build weapons. No designs, no fabrications, no repairs. I want no part of it. Just so we're clear."
no subject
It's blunt and quick, the way he asks that, lacking in a questioning inflection but certainly expecting an answer. Not a challenge, either. More so a direct scrolling down to whatever footnote matches this asterisk.
no subject
One foot, braced by metal shell and leather sole, scuffs quietly on the stone.
"The abandoned mining complex beneath Kirkwall—what they call Darktown. Have you seen it?"
no subject
The swerve in subject is followed along willingly enough, as he says, "Haven't been," in the tone of someone who knows about it.
no subject
Once that's over, he'll brave the ferry and visit these places that have been described to him, if he can manage it. The ferry alone is an intimidating prospect—even if he could swim, he hasn't the muscle tone to combat even the modest weight of his supports, so a mishap could send him straight to the bottom of the harbour—but he feels obliged to try.
"The way it's been described—Lowtown, too, the strata," his hand comes up, fingers bent flat, to stack invisible layers. (Hightown is a given, no need to mention it.) "I was born in a similar place. We even call it the undercity," and the coincidence plays in his tone. "It's why I came up, why I earned that position: to improve the lives of people with no chance to help themselves. That does not change simply because,"
shortly after it begins, this gesture becomes a helpless cycle,
"because of," what do you even call such a batshit crazy circumstance,
"this."
no subject
"It could," Tony says, once he's done. "Change. But I dig that it doesn't."
Sometimes it sinks in longer, that there's no way back. That this is the world now. Hard to say at first blush how many of those processes Viktor has actually internalised or if this is just the instinctive pursuit of an already established pattern—but that, too, is not necessarily Tony's problem.
Anyway. It is batshit, and there are worse reactions. "I don't build guns," he says, after a second. "Or misc machines of destruction. It's not a div-wide ban, to be clear, and some of my stuff has," a finger wiggle, "a little grey area, but I like to give people options. Subduing damage, not lethal," another gesture, hands flowing from one end of the spectrum to the deadly other. "But I used to. May as well get that out of the way before you hear it somewhere else. And I got out of defense before I got here.
"Switched majors. Energy, robotics, communications, infrastructure," a gesture on this last one, Viktor's way, "on a manufacturing scale. Wartime mandate doesn't mean designing the biggest gun."
no subject
The rest, as he listens, is encouraging—and as he listens, intently, the shape of his brow suggests sympathy, or worry, though really it's just attentive. That shape doesn't change for specifics: grey area, non-lethal. He's not a fool, doesn't expect everyone to lay down their arms just because he's arrived with opinions instead of luggage. Most people don't like to fight; most people do what they feel they must.
"What led you to that decision?"
unwieldy week, sorry for delay
Part of that being: plenty of people have, by now, seen the worst of him. It happens to everyone eventually.
"When you put something out into the world and it stops being yours, it becomes anybody's," after that second is past. "Which is a bad premise if you're making missiles that can tear up mountains. Bad enough for it to fall into the wrong hands, worse when that's happening behind your back on purpose and for profit. The only mistakes I make twice involve nacho cheese and anniversaries."
A shrug. "And I built something better. Simple battery. Goes a long way in a world suffering from the depletion of finite resources."
no worriesss
Clam recognize clam; his shell's hairline crack widens.
"Before I," woke up to find he'd lost everything, "found myself here, we were in the midst of negotiating such a crisis. One of our stones became anybody's. Stolen," he adds, slouching into the memory of their failing. "There was talk of preemptive countermeasures, and... a Hextech weapon could easily be made to tear up a mountain."
Or to collapse a fissure, with so many people inside, innocent and otherwise—not a distinction he cares to make in this context. An unconscionable choice, regardless. He would never have consented to it.
"So." So, he doesn't know how that story ends, and never will, and the acute pain in that thought becomes a note of wistful humour. "I'm relieved there's room here for better batteries."
no subject
No need during the onboarding to get into the lessons learned by hand-wringing physicists in the wake of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or the variety of weapons of destructive powers that, in a dream of the future, had been wrung out of both himself and his colleague. If Viktor sticks around, like some of them tend to, there'll be time for any of that.
For now— "Wysteria Poppell," a gesture, "or, excuse me, de Foncé, has her own wealth of experience in working with enchantment and mechanics from her home world and, in the past few years, this one. She's summering in Orzammar—which, you definitely gotta go to Orzammar at some point, we'll find a reason sometime. But she and me and now you make up the R&D, total, right now.
"Unless," he adds, a gesture to Viktor, generous, "I didn't get the job. Diplomacy's pretty desperate, I hear."
no subject
"As tempting as that sounds," it doesn't, at all, "the better fit is R&D. With emphasis on the D."
He now rises from his seat to step to the desk, with the rune switch in one hand and his crutch in the other, held like a staff for the time being. And no, that was not on purpose. Look at him, with his formidable eyebrows and his razor cheeks and the funny little shape of his mouth, his two little moles perfectly placed, his sloping shoulders, long hands and bony wrists, offering the ring back to its maker, innocent of the knowledge that he should really just set it on the desk: completely earnest.
"This being the case, I am very pleased to inform you that you're hired."
no subject
"Thanks," easy. "We can do a tour sometime. Some stuff you should see before you get started for real."
The rune switch is tossed back into his other hand with a flick, moving to go see Viktor out and placing the device back on his worktable as he goes. Once at the door, he pauses, and then looks back.
"Do you have pizza in your world?"
no subject
Yes.
The abrupt non sequitur gives him pause—and he pauses, physically, and for a moment looks like he's trying to decide if this is a trick question. No, it's probably normal. As he reanimates, a normal answer:
"I'm... not familiar with the word, but... maybe? What is it?"
no subject
"It's a food group," Tony says, now opening the door and standing aside for Viktor to go through it. "You know, cheese, meat, circle. Dining hall has it every other Wednesday, so you're just in time."
But he doesn't get to be a part of the focus group for pizza perfection. Still—
"Kitchen'll welcome the feedback."
no subject
"Thank you, sir." For the meeting, for being receptive, for the grounding sense of trajectory, for standing to see him out. "I look forward to that tour, whenever you have the time." Not professional lip service; he's ready to go, tour him now, put something in his hand so his mind can stop drilling inwards. "And I'll be sure to give the kitchen my impression of their... cheesy meat circle."