genessia | [Text - meant to be private, accidentally made public]

Did you intend on everyone seeing this?

You can see my words?

Yes, unfortunately. Technology can be so... fiddly.

[Especially with his clawed fingers.]

... This was not meant for anybody's gaze. Forget what was seen.

[ Remilia can barely work a computer. ]

That would be best. It seemed rather... personal.

[ She has plenty of things she'd like to keep to herself too. ]

It was indeed very personal.

[The most personal.]

[Well. Awkward. Not as awkward as that time he popped out of the cake at Rory's stag party, though, and even that was only at the mid-upper end of his list of awkward situations, so he takes it more or less in stride... besides making a slightly childishly uneasy face.]

...ah, sorry, mate, think you might have missed the "private" button, there.

[The Doctor points toward where the "private" button sits on the screen... then brightens a little, trying to be reassuring, if probably still a bit awkwardly.]

Very poetic, though, very touching, A plus.

[Thumbs up! Because nothing says comfort like having your private thoughts critiqued by a babyfaced weirdo.]

What? You could see what I wrote?

Well... yeah, a bit, probably all of it, actually.

Then you need to forget what you saw.

Ah. Well. I can respect your privacy, anyway, of course, but can't really forget, wouldn't it be convenient if it were that easy, but no worries, your secret's safe with me.

[He smiles understandingly, there; both with regards to loss, and to wanting to keep one's secrets to oneself.

...although he's expression falters as he thinks it thought.]

...well, it's not actually, of course, it's all across the network, never know who might have seen it, could be anyone, or everyone, really, 'though probably not lit'rally everyone, and knowing humans, a lot of them probably won't be int'rested or they'll be afraid to say anything, but aside from that, yeah, don't worry, I won't let on.

[He puts on that smile again, toward the end--sort of a "yeah, sorry things are crap, but here we are" smile.]

But if it's worth anything, might just have some idea what you're talking about.

.....

[There's a low growl, more angry at himself for being so careless than anyone else.]

If everyone has seen then they are wise to say nothing.

Why do you think that you know what I was writing about?

Ha, well, don't let the cool gear fool you--

[He straightens his bow tie emphatically, raising his eyebrows.]

--I'm quite a bit older than I look, well, by most species' standards, anyway, been around the block a few times.

[Just the briefest of pauses, but it's there, and the look in his eyes is just an iota more serious.]

I know a thing or two about loss.

[Which is about as far as he feels any need to probe without an actual invitation... which the question obviously wasn't, so much as a challenge to an interloper.]

Do you know of a loss that crushes you from the inside out?

...I've seen a thing or two.

[The bittersweet smile with which he answers makes it pretty clear he's not just goofing around or being idly evasive; that's a "yes" from someone who doesn't really like to talk about it any more than you do.

Especially when he's not sure you're flagging this conversation as private, seeing as your dirty laundry's already out the window, but he's not about to private it himself and let on that he's hiding anything. But however youthful his face might be, there's something about the way he wears it that betrays a hint of just how old he is, whether counted in years, or in scars, or in both.]

[He hasn't set it to private yet although he had considered doing so. There is another option.]

Perhaps this is a conversation better had in person.

[...interesting, which means the Doctor can't really not go.]

Really, well, if y'like, your place or mine, I've got a bit of space at the research laboratories, orrr wherever you prefer, I s'pose.

Come to my apartment at The Ave in Nova City. Unit 011.

...oh! Yes, all right, I'll be there in, well, long as it takes to get there from Attleton, no worries, I'll work it out, got my map thingy, see you in a bit!

[And he does indeed head over there, taking about the time it takes to walk it from Attleton.]

[Grievous is waiting at the door as if too restless to wait inside. He greets the Doctor and ushers him in once he arrives. Inside the apartment is pristine, compact and modern and there seems to be only one large room. There are many sliding shelves pushed to one side but there are two seats and a table. They aren't particularly comfortable, being quite hard and merely functional.]

[He does certainly make not of being greeted at the door. The Doctor flashes a slightly sheepish smile, letting himself be ushered in, and casually checking the place out. He raps his knuckles a couple of times on the table, lightly, leans down to swat the chair seat to test if it's as minimally-comfortable as it looks.]

Ahh, nice place, very spartan, not actually Spartan, can't say I was much of a fan, they were a bit... stabby.

[He tweaks the chair's position a little, and twirls about to seat himself, sitting upright and raising his eyebrows at Grievous like "so: you rang?"]

I have few material needs in this body.

[He explains. At times he does need to rest and recharge but he doesn't really need full sleep or even food or drink. Minimalist surroundings suit him for now. He doesn't sit down himself but turns to face his visitor.]

It seems perhaps that we have something in common, however I would like to hear your story first.

...my story?

[The Doctor smiles enigmatically at that, obviously not exactly comfortable spilling his guts just like that. He gives Grievious a penetrating, measuring look from behind that smile, subtly bracing himself, since he's got quite another tack, and casually crosses his legs, resting his hands on his knee.]

...no, 'course you would't, it's long, and probably not quite your cup of tea, which, if you've got one, I wouldn't mind, but no, you really wouldn't, but there are three things you'd be int'rested to hear: I've been traveling for something like eleven-hundred years, most of my friends in that time've been human, and.. I was a grandfather, a.... long time ago.

[The smile's marred for just a second by a hint of a grimace at the end, but he keeps it on place like a softer, friendlier analogue to Grievous' face mask, just inclining his head slightly for a moment. It's partly a test, really--to gauge just what sort of person Grievous is besides that title general that the Doctor doesn't especially love--and partly rhetoric, letting him fill in the blanks so he's more invested in the story.

But at its heart, those are the important points to answer the question he assumes Grievous' really means to ask by inquiring about the Doctor's story: whether this Doctor can truly understand phenomenal personal loss. Well, he's lived tens of times longer than most of his friends, and the last bit was emphatically in the past tense.

Hopefully that makes it clear enough what he can understand about loss.]

[There was a long moment where the cyborg said nothing and didn't even move. He merely stared directly at the Doctor with those golden, reptilian eyes. Then he turned away, his voice quieter, not quite as harsh-sounding.]

Before I became what you see now, I had wives... Children...

[He trails off, pensive.]

[Much like if he looked in a mirror, the eyes tell so very much more than the face, and the Doctor doesn't seem particular fazed at being stared down. ...although his mask falters for just a second at the mention of children.]

...I'm sorry.

[He doesn't move from his relaxed position, not effusive with his sympathy--not shocked, or fawning, or offering pity, merely acknowledging, with regret, that that's how things often seem to go, and Grievous seemed to have gotten a raw deal. And yet at another, deeper layer, almost more like a surgeon expressing his regret over a lost patient to their family.

He keeps quiet otherwise, though; it's Grievous' story to get off his chest, and he probably didn't ask the Doctor to come to his apartment just to gauge whether he'd understand, if he didn't also want to... well, to be heard. One of those situations where even the Doctor gets that it's likely best if he doesn't do a lot talking. Instead, he's just attentive and receptive.]

[The Doctor is correct that Grievous needs to talk about this. It was why he wrote to her in the first place, even if Ronderu wasn't here. Even if she was lost forever. It was a silent plea in a way. He'd just needed to get it outside of his own thoughts. But his next words may be surprising.]

This was not about them. Some may continue to exist. I do not know and have no way here of finding out.

My memories and mind have recently been restored to me and with that comes a deeper sorrow.

[He pauses again as if not sure he can go on for a moment.]

[The Doctor smiles one of those enigmatic, bittersweet smiles, sitting back in his seat a little.]

...there's something I can understand, as well... but I'd say that's what hope's for.

[He's not about to pry for details, though, at least certainly not at this juncture, although he's poised to listen if Grievous has more he's ready to say.]

There is no hope. What hope is there for something completely lost?

[He appears to be simmering between rage and despair.]

Said yourself, "some may still exist," and that right there's more grounds for hope than some of us ever get. You hope they get to live their lives, have more good days than regrets, do something brilliant, whether you get to see it or not.

[He leans forward a little, hands resting on his knees, meeting that roiling intensity with calm.]

And you hope you did right by them, that you can do their memory justice, be everything they deserve you to be. There's always hope, even when it's just that you did your best.

[He lets out a frustrated growl at the kind words and shakes his head.]

No, I told you this wasn't about them. This was before any of them.

Ronderu... She was... more than any of them. When I lost her I lost part of myself.

[It may sound harsh and he does care about his family. His wives; his children. But they came later in an attempt to fill the void left in his heart by the passing of the one who was like a soulmate.]

She cannot return. She cannot come here. She is nowhere.

Whot-

...oh. ...ohh...

[The Doctor glances down for just a tick, then back up again.]

...yes, sorry, I see--but, no, sorry, why d'you say she couldn't come here..?

I assume you didn't wish for this to be public.

But if you'd like to talk, I'm willing to listen. Or I can forget about it.

[It was easy enough to tell others to forget they saw this but Cassian was different, trusted in some way.]

Come to my apartment in Nova City when you are available. I cannot speak of this over the network.

[Even privately.]

I'm currently not in Attleton, but I can visit you soon.

[ He will make time for someone he values greatly, even on vacation. ]

I would like to speak to you of this, sir.

[ Or more like, he feels that Grievous needs to speak of this, and he will be happy to listen. ]

Then I will be expecting you.

[Grievous lives at The Ave, modern compact apartments with sliding walls to conserve space. The walls hide many compartments to create different rooms in different positions. It suits a cyborg who doesn't really need a bedroom nor a kitchen. Or at least not often. He does need some rest but not like regular prolonged sleep. When Cassian arrives there will be a simple set up of two seats and little else in the space.]

[ He takes in the sparse set-up, functional and easily adjusted to one's needs, and almost smiles at the sight. Very military-like, that. He likes it. ]

Your apartment is very nice. It's tidy, for one thing, I appreciate it.

[ Unlike the chaotic mess that is his house. He's long since given up on trying to keep order there.

He focuses on Grievous instead.]

How are you, General?

[He nods at the compliment. Another advantage was the price, costing under his payrate he has built up a surplus of funds that can go toward hiring bodyguards.]

Take a seat.

[He offers, indicating the chairs. He doesn't really need to rest his legs but he does sit down anyway.]

It is a complicated and personal matter, as you can well imagine.

[He begins about his accidental posting, not exactly answering the question.]

So I trust you not to spread any details to others.

Of course, sir.

[ Cassian sits as he has been told, careful to keep his posture relaxed and open, body language set to put Grievous at ease for this difficult conversation. ]

You can trust in my discretion. I won't share, not even with my partner.

[ With whom he shares information freely, normally. ]

[Text - meant to be private, accidentally made public]

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