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Magical Refugee Wendy Wesson and the Sins
A Walta (Rockeye) dimension-hops to the Sins (Guilty)
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Incomplete charts do all sorts of strange, dangerous things. An incomplete protection chart might crush its caster, or fail to protect from anything at all. The only reason you would use an incomplete chart is if you have to, this instant, the alternative is worse than the risks.

An incomplete teleport chart risks death in at least a dozen ways. The ensnaring spells and blasts of fire from the people chasing her through the forest is certain death, or else imprisonment and torture. She touches the chart-

-She's falling, falling, flailing. Darkness all around, points of light, unflinching stars. Panic. Her protective spell is straining, she can feel it being pulled taut. It doesn't snap. Wendy spins around and around and around, not knowing how to hold herself in free fall. She loses a pencil, spinning off with a spurt of air when it reaches the edge of her little bubble. She screams. She throws up. She scrambles for her chart book, barely catching it before it spins away like the pencil, and frantically pages through until her sheaf of protection spells appears - touches one and feels the strain suddenly cut in half.  She tries to calm down. It doesn't really work - she's still spinning and covered in smelly vomit.

...She'll probably be here for a while.

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She does appear to have landed in an area of space that is bereft of anything. And it is...quite a while, before eventually, a ship appears. It manages to lurk into existence at the edge of her vision - at least, it's at the edge for a little while, and then she probably spins so it's in full view. It's scarred, and battered, and... And coming towards her, slowly, somehow managing to exude more caution than an non-sentient object should be able to.

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She eventually stops spinning, mostly, out of air resistance if nothing else. And that metal monstrosity is probably someone's - well, it's probably better than spinning around in the empty sky until she runs out of protective charts.

...They pretty clearly see her. She waves and starts spinning again.

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The ship draws level with her, ominous and somehow predatory. A hatch on the side opens, and ship shifts smoothly to net her within it, the hatch closing behind her and leaving her in a dim room., empty but for a row of helmets hung on one wall, next to a door that appears to be completely sealed. There's clicks and hisses as the room pressurises, and the lights flicker, but do not, really, brighten, but gravity abruptly reasserts itself.

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Her protection sphere wants to push her away as air spews around everywhere (she brought a bunch with her apparently?) - there's something really weird going on at the boundary. She ends up whacking against one of the room's walls shortly before the gravity turns on, and lands on her front. "...Fuckin' ow."

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The internal door opens with a sharp hiss, and two people enter.

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"I don't suppose I'll be lucky enough that y'all speak English. Or maybe Deutsche? That's it for languages I know."

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The first to enter was a man, practically skipping, spinning a bardiche around in his hands. He tilts his head, and looks back...

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...to the woman who followed him in, a whip coiled in one hand. She frowns, pauses, clearly thinking. "The latter perhaps?" she says - in something that obviously evolved from Deutsche, it's not a perfect match, but it is not entirely unintelligible. "I can't say I was expecting you to actually be alive. Never mind conscious."

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Nice weapons. She checks the doubled protection spell still sitting in the back of her mind - it's still active.

German it is. Hopefully it will be similar enough. "Well, I am alive. Unfinished teleport might kill me, but staying where I was definitely would have killed me."

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The woman shakes the whip out, and the light catches on it revealing that it's made of tiny interlocking metal plates that bristle as she twists her wrist - it's not entirely clear whether the action is conscious. "I think we have a translation error 'unfinished teleport'? No known technology to support transportation of a dead subject, never mind a live one."

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Wendy looks around exaggeratedly at the metal room. "We are both confused. Can you - get me some water? I stink. That falling feeling was nauseating." And the brandished weapons are off-putting. She's clutching the notebook in case of unpleasantness.

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The woman tilts her head very slightly towards the man. He shrugs.

"There's a decon shower," she says, gesturing towards one wall. One of the panels slides back to reveal exactly that. She looks at the man and makes a sharp, dismissive gesture.

(He leaves, pouting.)

"We'll find something that fits you if you'd prefer to be out of those clothes," she adds, not quite turning her back to the shower. She's inspecting the girl out of the corner of her eye, looking for injuries and general state of physical health.

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"I would appreciate clean clothes."

Before Wendy strips and showers she pages through the notebook, elaborate diagrams of some kind on each page, and touches one of the pages. A pale blue rectangle appears to conceal her, hanging in midair. She takes the notebook into the shower.

She is... Not obviously injured, but there are little scrapes, her hair is an absolute mess, and she seems very tired.

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The woman makes a quiet, considering sound, but doesn't say anything, and instead leans against the wall, fingers stroking the length of her whip. She doesn't appear entirely aware of her surroundings, but it probably doesn't do to test just how true that is.

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The door hisses open again and another woman enters, carrying a bundle of clothes in her arms. She arches an eyebrow at the obscured decon shower, glances to the woman against the wall, and then shrugs and leans against the wall on the other side of the door, waiting.

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Eventually the shower stops. The obscuring wall lowers just enough for Wendy to look at them, hair soaked down. "Thanks for picking me up, by the way. And for the shower. I'm Wendy. Ooh, do I see clean clothes?"

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"Also towels and a hairbrush," the new woman says, holding those out. "Let me know when you're dry enough to want the clothes. I'm Gluttony, t'other one's Pride. When was the last time you ate?"

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"Ah, thanks... Last night I stole a chunk of cheese and this morning I had some berries that I recognized. Or whatever passes for morning in a sea of empty sky."

Wall goes back up. Towel sounds can be heard.

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"So basically you've barely had anything to eat in the past day at least. Alright. How do you feel about beef? There's some beef stew left over from lunch, or we have fillings for sandwiches... You're not aller-"

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"Gee," Pride sounds more amused than anything. "Let the girl answer a question before rambling."

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"Kind of hard to stop and eat properly when the Hands are a few hours behind you. Food sounds good. Any food." She gives a sigh. "Where am I anyway?"

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"One of the dead zones out on the edge. Good place to disappear to if you're being chased. I would suggest making sure you have an adequate space suit before attempting it again. Ready for clothes?"

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"Maybe I wasn't clear on this. I used an unfinished teleport chart. I could be anywhere. It certainly seems like I'm somewhere strange."

She accepts clothes over the top of the pale blue wall.

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"And I mentioned that I thought there might be a translation glitch," Pride states. "Those words...theoretically make sense but explain...well. Nothing as far as I can tell."

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"I mean. Unless you tumbled out of one of L's fantasy novels. But."

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"Well. We're pretty clearly outside each others' context. I'm just as confused."

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"Alright then," Gluttony says slowly. "Food. And then we figure out what the fuck is going on. Food makes thinking easier."

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"Adding food to a situation rarely makes things worse, I approve of food right now."

The blue wall disappears revealing Wendy, dressed, bearing a look of slight concentration and then a smile.

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"You look better already," Pride seems relieved. "Food it is."

She's coiled the whip again, and it's clipped neatly onto a clasp on her belt.

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Wendy stays aware of the weapons. Hard to put your finger on it, but she's standing in a certain way. Guarded. "I'm guessing you don't eat in here. It's, like, an entry hall."

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"Quite correct!" Gluttony agrees. "This way," she leads the way out into the main corridor.

It's as dim out here as in the airlock, sheer metal walls smooth and dull enough to not reflect the lighting. Neither Gluttony nor Pride seem affected by the dim lighting, obviously well used to it.

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Insides of things are dim when the best thing you have is candles. Those aren't candles, but she wasn't really expecting brighter.

Wendy's command of the language she's using is somewhat shaky, even before the slight disconnect between - dialects or whatever the difference is. "About us confusing each other... I can do many things by using up written charts of symbols. I have two Magdalene's Spheres of Protection active now, just one was not enough to sustain me in the void. The wall of light was similar. You seem surprised by it, so I think charting has not been discovered here?"

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"Feels more like something that just...doesn't exist," Pride corrects. "I think if they existed we'd have found them by now."

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"I mean, we don't know everything, Pri," Gluttony points out. "But it sounds like a fair bet. Although it doesn't explain your existence."

And here is the galley! Which is slightly brighter. And Gluttony bustles over to a stove, and pokes at a pot that's busy simmering on it.

Pride ushers Wendy into a seat.

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"Is all this... Stuff machines? Walls made of metal would be expensive and heavy and the pot and stove is the first thing I recognize, except it is not burning coal."

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"I mean. We could use a coal burner. But then we might start having problems with our filtration systems. Might be worth it for the taste... Wrath yelling at me on the other hand..."

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"Metal is slightly more resilient than other substances to being outside of the atmosphere," Pride notes in amusement. "We counteract the weight with anti-grav systems and powerful engines. But yes. I suppose you could say you are in fact inside a machine."

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"Here," Gluttony puts a bowl brimmed with steaming stew down in front of Wendy. "Eat. You look half-starved."

The stew is thick, with visible chunks of vegetables and meat.

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"Spoon? Also where I'm from there's, uh, dirt and sky and ocean and things. Not sure how people live here - unless it's sort of like being on the ocean, this is a ship? I'm probably going to end up trading magic with you but I do not actually trust you more than reflexively from saving my life while thinking you were picking up salvage and seeming friendly. Yet, that is."

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Gluttony slides a spoon over as she shares an amused look with Pride.

"There are places where people live on planets, dirt and sky and ocean, we just...prefer the quiet of space. And well. We've got the tech to survive in it."

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"And we tend to know exactly what we're picking up. Our sensors are pretty damn good. And a woman floating in space without an enviro-suit? That's something that catches our attention."

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"Well. It's magic." A spoon, yay. She can eat filling potatoes and beef. Hot and not even stolen.

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"So you say-" Pride starts.

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"Let the girl eat, Pri," Gluttony cuts her off with a gentle slap to the upper arm. "There's plenty more if you're still hungry after that. Or sandwiches. Or I can make something else entirely."

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"I'll tell you all about it." Nom. "Jus' hard to do that around a spoon."

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"Okay, that's fair."

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The door slides open and another woman stalks in, muttering sourly to herself.

Her clothes and hair are noticeably singed, and on her visible skin, along with oil smudges, there's a variety of burns and cuts, that do in fact appear to be visibly healing. There's also a variety of scars that it's hard to tell if it's from current injuries healing, or historical injuries - some do look like surgical scars. Her face is decidedly asymmetric, and that almost certainly predates her current injuries.

She's making a beeline for the stove.

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Gluttony sighs, shakes her head and easily manoeuvres around the woman to serve up another bowl, shoving it into her hands with a spoon.

The woman takes it with a grunt, and leans against the counter next to the stove to wolf it down.

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Oh hey someone who actually looks like they work for a living. Except for regenerating before her eyes.

...Her protective spells are still up, yeah.

Wendy is not trying to stare down the threatening-seeming newcomer. But she's not succeeding at not doing that either.

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The newcomer blinks lazily at her, apparently not at all put off by someone staring her down.

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"Wrath," Pride's voice is low, a warning note to it.

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"Well, I don't mean any harm to any of you. I don't wanna fight. It's just that you get sensitive to violent tendencies when you help people the White Hands don't like for years and then exist as an outlaw for six months."

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Wrath ducks her head slightly, lips twisting into what is probably supposed to be a grin - they can't quite move right to make it more obvious - and her eyes glow with an eerie red light. "I like her," she drawls.

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"You don't like anyone," Gluttony shoots back. "Merely tolerate. Who're the White Hands?"

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"The White Hands are the imperial police. The special police, who deal with capital crimes. Treason, spying, rebellion. Apparently freeing slaves is all four grand theft, kidnapping, inciting rebellion, and treason!"

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All three women make low, hissing sounds at the word 'slaves'. (Although the sound Wrath makes is far closer to a growl.)

"I assume that slavery is legal where you're from? In which case, I suppose I can understand the logic, but-"

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"Sounds like they're fucks who get off on having the power to fuck with people."

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"Yeah, you can end up a slave if your parents were, if you were on the losing side of a border war, or if you get convicted of a crime much bigger than shoplifting, or if some noble likes the look of you and you don't have your papers on you. But if I get them over the border to Lyran... Slavery is not legal there and the White Hands aren't getting them back without a war."

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"Alright, that's just sick. And people round here thought it was bad having to worry about slavers attacking. At least they're theoretically protected from it."

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"Preaching to the choir. Things got messy. But I couldn't just leave things as they were." ...Nom. Food is good.

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"Good war seems like it might be needed," Wrath says, also nomming her food.

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"Did you want more?" Gluttony asks, watching Wendy eat. "Or something different? I think I have some of the cake I made yesterday left as well..."

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"I'm good for now, thanks. Problem with war is I'm not an army and it'd kill a lot more than slavers."

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"Your opinion on collateral damage is not relevant, Wrath," Pride snaps. "Although...eggs and omelettes and all that..."

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"...I don't really- I-" Sigh. "I'd love a war on slavers, except the slave-owners mostly wouldn't be the ones fighting. Officers maybe. Enlisted charters are lower middle class, sometimes slaves themselves. And besides the really important bit of a war is what you do afterwards. Ideally, you don't want to set up another war to come in ten years. And I don't know how to do that bit."

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"War is a good distraction for some nice, sharp, assassinations," Wrath almost purrs. "And then, you make sure everyone's too scared to try another war."

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"Open war is a huge logistical effort that takes years, leadership, knowledge of the battlefield and enemies and allies and morale, and causes famines, lots and lots of people dying, untold suffering, so on, so forth. It's not out of the question. But it shouldn't be something decided over a conversation over stew."

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Wrath shrugs. "I need to go kick the engines some more anyway."

She puts her bowl in what is probably some kind of automated washer, and departs.

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"You'll have to forgive Wrath. She's kind of missing the concept of 'logistics' and 'odds'. Comes from basically being an anti-tank weapon I'm her own right."

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"Panzer? I don't know what that means. 'Weapon' I know, though. Anyway... I'm not sure what to do next. I don't know the rules around here, you know?"

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Gluttony pulls a tablet from somewhere, and starts to navigate through it. "As far as ship rules go? Don't piss off Wrath, don't go anywhere uninvited, don't invade the cockpit, and don't mess up afternoon tea. We're fairly easy otherwise. And like, there's too many different laws to recount them all, and we ignore like...all of them anyway."

She spins the tablet around to display an image of a tank. "Panzer," she says. "Tank. It's a mobile weapon."

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"Oh, I get it, I'm a guest here, a refugee or castaway or what have you. Huh. Neat. That thing looks like a big fat target, though, if I'm being perfectly honest. Maybe the armor or weapons are good enough to negate that in a world without charting."

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"Only if they don't have Wrath bearing down on them," Gluttony agrees cheerfully. "I mean. An orbital strike or shells will take them out but they are more resilient than a person..."

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"...do you have any injuries that need tending?" Pride asks abruptly.

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"Bumps and scrapes and the usual, just, wear and tear of living rough. I'm guessing I'd have a lot more to worry about if my protection shell popped out there."

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"Hm," Pride hums. "I will admit I would be happier if you allowed me to look you over. But if you think it is not required, then I will bow to your superior knowledge of your own body."

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"If I get an infection, I can deal with it. If I start healing wrong, I can deal with it. If something goes badly wrong - yeah, I'll want you to look at me, then."

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"Pri is a motherhen," Gluttony explains. "And I suspect whatever happened with Wrath is making her fingers twitch."

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"I can still accept somebody's preferences. I apologise if I made you uncomfortable."

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"We're all tense. All's well that ends without fighting. Also, once again, thanks for having me aboard."

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"Well, we couldn't very well leave you floating in space," Gluttony says smiling. "...Would you like to rest?"

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"Maybe in an hour or two. Right now I'm full and warm and want to explore the strange new world I find myself in, get to know you all some."

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At which point the door slide opens and admits Avarice. "Which, will be infinitely easier with this," he holds up a small earpiece. "Which should run translation of us to you! I think I have enough of a sample of your language to do that."

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"That... Is amazing! Well, I don't actually know this one as a native. I am kind of struggling. The other one would be better if you can repeat the process? Later, that is."

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"I'd need sampling of the language but the algorithm can be set up to learn from you talking. It might be a bit buggy at first, but it'll get there."

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"It's already - I don't know how you do that without having a person in there translating."

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"Like...how do I even explain this? You'll have a small amount of delay, because the program needs to actually break down the sounds, but the tech acts in place of the person? It processes the sounds and spits out the translation?"

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"There is some mechanism, I know that, but I'm saying I cannot comprehend how complicated something would have to be. And to make it learn..."

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"I think we have a disconnect here," Avarice says slowly. "This is fairly simple to me. Now creating a machine that can hold a decent conversation rather than simply translating inputs or regurgitating stock answers, that would be complicated."

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"...Well, for reference, the most complicated non-magical machine I know of is, I don't know, an ocean ship's rudder and sails? Or maybe the woodblock ink presses they use to mass-produce common charts."

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"...You're pre-Industrial? Ooh, I get to introduce you to loads of interesting tech!"

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"We do a lot of things with charts. A lot of things. Purely mechanical stuff not so much."

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Pride looks between the two of them. "Please do try not to overwhelm each other?" she requests. "But by all means, go ahead and discuss the differences in our societies and technology levels."

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"I can introduce you to the others who are awake if you want? I don't think E would mind us checking out the cockpit, Pri tells me you've already met Wrath, and L probably wants to say hi at some point. S...may or may not when he's awake. Hard to tell."

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"If we're using letters for everyone I am 'W'. Meeting several new people at once is always a bit daunting - at the best of times. You don't need to go out of your way for me, though."

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"Good thing we don't shorten Wrath then, isn't it," Gluttony mutters, a tad sourly. And then softens. "Av and Pri are that, the other four of us aside form Wrath somehow became letters? Probably because it was easiest for us. And we're not...as much that as Wrath is."

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"I think you've had at least as hard a life as I have, fighting the White Hands and living rough or not."

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There's a moment of sombre, sober silence from her three hosts, and indecipherable looks flash between them.

"Feels like we're fighting the whole damn galaxy sometimes," Pride observes wearily. "But we're safe, and whole...well. Mostly. Wrath does occasionally defy the last..."

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"I could have settled down somewhere. The White Hands' reach is not everywhere. I have charting skills, could make a comfortable life." Shrug. "My mission's more important, I thought."

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Pride smiles, and it's sad, and just as tired. "Sometimes, even if it looks like there's options, there really isn't any." She shakes her head as though to clear it. "I'm going to go and see if Wrath actually needs anything stitched up. I doubt it, but sometimes someone needs to bully her into taking care of herself."

She departs, snagging a quick hug and kiss from Avarice on her way past.

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Avarice watches Pride leave, and then turns back to Wendy. "Well, W, wanna come see whether E's up for a visitor in his cockpit? I think avoiding the engines until we're sure Pri and Wrath aren't going to fight is probably a good idea."

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"...Is that like the bridge? I thought ships had bridges, or at least quarterdecks."

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Pause, running through terminology. "I guess you could call it the bridge. Apparently some people call if the flight deck? So many words for one thing..."