"Oh. I mean...that's a good point and all, but if I'd learned to swim like that, I probably would've hated it." And that would have erased such a large part of her, where she finds her sense of peace and stability.
So when he says it might be nice she grins up at him in surprise and delight. "I bet you'll like it. And surfing. It's even more fun than swimming but you have to know how to keep yourself from drowning to do it."
With this in mind she steers them toward a cove. "You don't have to answer anything personal, but- when did you pick your names? If your brother didn't have a chance to...?"
"I think most of us did," he agrees, and feels a little bad to realize he's marred this beautiful place with talk of death. It's such a normal, constant part of his existence, has been since his earliest memories, that it mostly doesn't occur to him that it might be out of place. But he looks at Annie in her bare feet and impractical clothes, her easy manner and happy smile, and resolves to try and remember as he continues to pad along in her wake.
"I can swim in full armor, I'm pretty much drowning proof," he answers, wondering just what surfing is but more focused on answering than asking right now.
He doesn't expect her next question, it's not something most people seem to think or care about. So many don't even acknowledge their names in the first place. "It... varies," he answers quietly, drifting back towards the water again and its unaccustomed warmth. "Most of us didn't dare for a long time, at first, and if we did we kept them to ourselves and our batchmates, in case it was considered an aberration."
He crouches down again, water washing over his incongruously pale, bare feet, and lets the surf wash over a piece of shell he's found, rinsing the sand away to show the luminous mother of pearl lining it. "I didn't choose mine until I was... nine, I guess. Maybe ten." They'd only ever tracked their age in the vaguest of terms, their stage of training had always been more important, and even now he's guessing to say he's thirteen, it could just as easily be twelve. It doesn't seem very important most of the time. "It was just before we deployed, anyway. My whole batch chose our names in the last standard week or so before we graduated."
"A lot of shinies show up to their first posting still just going by their numbers." And so a lot of them die before ever claiming even that tiny sliver of individuality for themselves, but he remembers not to say that this time, and instead tips his head to look back up at her, smiling faintly and holding the scrap of shell out to show her, the mother of pearl gleaming in the sun. "What makes it like this?"
"Shinies," she echoes with a grin, "I like that. It'd fit my new brothers. Most of them still go by their birth names...but we all pick new ones sooner or later."
However, those who are quick to pick a name, or those who take a year to do it, it doesn't matter--there's no pressure. Nothing that would make them an 'aberration'. But maybe there are plenty of things that made her pack weak-
She shoves the thought away hard and looks at his hand, letting herself sink into this moment instead. "I have no idea! I think it's something to do with the secretions of what lived in the shell? I could be so wrong, though. But it'd make sense, since that's what makes pearls. Me, I know what makes tides and when a storm's coming a week away, and how to hunt anything that moves. But smart stuff, I'm pretty bad at that."
She unbraids a bit of leather from her hair and hands it to him. On the end are flecks of shells, mostly mother of pearl like that one. "For you."
"Because their armor's still so shiny and clean," he points out, pleased at the response. More pleased even at how she takes his explanation in stride, the facts of his life just facts to accept and move on from. "It's best, I think, to be able to pick your own name, to have one that means something to you." And he actually grins back, a quick flash of teeth and warmth that doesn't fade entirely when he shifts his attention back to the scrap of shell.
"That sounds like smart stuff to me." He's not just trying to bolster her ego, that's the kind of practical knowledge he respects, the kind of smart that helps keep people alive.
He looks up again, startled, when she offers him the length of leather, and rises quickly back to his feet. He doesn't even know what he'd do with it, but he finds his fingers itching to run over the surface of the shells dangling from it. "Are you sure?" He looks back at her, uncertain.
"I picked my name," she confides, "I don't know if my real one's going to be in my file, when I get a permanent warden." She trails off, and adds, "What are you going to do when you get a file to read? Will you just read it and keep it, or tell the inmate?"
She's smiling though, smiling at his praise, and that he's uncertain but clearly he's going to appreciate the gift for the same reasons she had when she made it. "I'm sure. It's yours. Consider it a reminder that there are beaches like this one, and a million shells and stuff to find in it."
"Then Annie is your real name," he points out stolidly, because as far as he's concerned it's as simple as that. He doesn't see why a name she doesn't want given to her by someone else is any more her 'real' name than a number given to him for tracking purposes by the Kaminoans is his.
He doesn't answer her question immediately, instead reaching out to take the strip of leather and its sparkling string of iridescent shards in careful hands. He runs broad, blunt fingers gently over each one, feeling the texture, comparing the rough outer shells to the smooth mother of pearl on the inside. "Thank you," he murmurs roughly, looking back up at her again. He's been given so few gifts in his short life, and nothing like this. "I'll remember."
He tucks it with almost excessive care into one of the pouches on his belt before going back to considering the question she'd asked. "I think... it would probably be more useful to discuss whatever information is in the file with my inmate," he finally answers, slow and deliberate like he's considering the answer as he goes. Which he is, and the conclusion he's reaching is far different from what it would have been had he been asked back when he'd first arrived. "If my job is to help someone else change, then keeping information from them that might indicate what it is they need to change wouldn't be of much help."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-02-15 05:45 am (UTC)So when he says it might be nice she grins up at him in surprise and delight. "I bet you'll like it. And surfing. It's even more fun than swimming but you have to know how to keep yourself from drowning to do it."
With this in mind she steers them toward a cove. "You don't have to answer anything personal, but- when did you pick your names? If your brother didn't have a chance to...?"
no subject
Date: 2017-02-15 06:41 am (UTC)"I can swim in full armor, I'm pretty much drowning proof," he answers, wondering just what surfing is but more focused on answering than asking right now.
He doesn't expect her next question, it's not something most people seem to think or care about. So many don't even acknowledge their names in the first place. "It... varies," he answers quietly, drifting back towards the water again and its unaccustomed warmth. "Most of us didn't dare for a long time, at first, and if we did we kept them to ourselves and our batchmates, in case it was considered an aberration."
He crouches down again, water washing over his incongruously pale, bare feet, and lets the surf wash over a piece of shell he's found, rinsing the sand away to show the luminous mother of pearl lining it. "I didn't choose mine until I was... nine, I guess. Maybe ten." They'd only ever tracked their age in the vaguest of terms, their stage of training had always been more important, and even now he's guessing to say he's thirteen, it could just as easily be twelve. It doesn't seem very important most of the time. "It was just before we deployed, anyway. My whole batch chose our names in the last standard week or so before we graduated."
"A lot of shinies show up to their first posting still just going by their numbers." And so a lot of them die before ever claiming even that tiny sliver of individuality for themselves, but he remembers not to say that this time, and instead tips his head to look back up at her, smiling faintly and holding the scrap of shell out to show her, the mother of pearl gleaming in the sun. "What makes it like this?"
no subject
Date: 2017-02-25 11:56 pm (UTC)However, those who are quick to pick a name, or those who take a year to do it, it doesn't matter--there's no pressure. Nothing that would make them an 'aberration'. But maybe there are plenty of things that made her pack weak-
She shoves the thought away hard and looks at his hand, letting herself sink into this moment instead. "I have no idea! I think it's something to do with the secretions of what lived in the shell? I could be so wrong, though. But it'd make sense, since that's what makes pearls. Me, I know what makes tides and when a storm's coming a week away, and how to hunt anything that moves. But smart stuff, I'm pretty bad at that."
She unbraids a bit of leather from her hair and hands it to him. On the end are flecks of shells, mostly mother of pearl like that one. "For you."
no subject
Date: 2017-02-26 05:30 am (UTC)"That sounds like smart stuff to me." He's not just trying to bolster her ego, that's the kind of practical knowledge he respects, the kind of smart that helps keep people alive.
He looks up again, startled, when she offers him the length of leather, and rises quickly back to his feet. He doesn't even know what he'd do with it, but he finds his fingers itching to run over the surface of the shells dangling from it. "Are you sure?" He looks back at her, uncertain.
no subject
Date: 2017-02-28 04:54 am (UTC)She's smiling though, smiling at his praise, and that he's uncertain but clearly he's going to appreciate the gift for the same reasons she had when she made it. "I'm sure. It's yours. Consider it a reminder that there are beaches like this one, and a million shells and stuff to find in it."
no subject
Date: 2017-02-28 06:30 am (UTC)He doesn't answer her question immediately, instead reaching out to take the strip of leather and its sparkling string of iridescent shards in careful hands. He runs broad, blunt fingers gently over each one, feeling the texture, comparing the rough outer shells to the smooth mother of pearl on the inside. "Thank you," he murmurs roughly, looking back up at her again. He's been given so few gifts in his short life, and nothing like this. "I'll remember."
He tucks it with almost excessive care into one of the pouches on his belt before going back to considering the question she'd asked. "I think... it would probably be more useful to discuss whatever information is in the file with my inmate," he finally answers, slow and deliberate like he's considering the answer as he goes. Which he is, and the conclusion he's reaching is far different from what it would have been had he been asked back when he'd first arrived. "If my job is to help someone else change, then keeping information from them that might indicate what it is they need to change wouldn't be of much help."