Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That's really the only word Miles can get his mind to process for the time being until he gets it unstuck enough to put together what's happened. That year on the Moira could easily have been a dream, a delusion, some prolonged drug-induced hallucination for all the inexplicable horseshit that had happened on it -- and had he woken up on present-day Barrayar, he might even be inclined to believe it. But this isn't present-day Barrayar. It's not even close. It is, on reflection, the worst possible Barrayar for him to have woken up on.
And his frigging leg is still broken.
At least it's not old tech plaster cast and he doesn't have to worry about getting it wet from the snow, but he barely manages to hobble around until he finds himself a sturdy enough stick to use as a crutch. No asking for help from the villagers, of course, he could barely get a word out edgewise before all the hex signs, once they'd had a look at his broken leg, the other one in a brace, and...all of him. It bothers him more than he'd like -- hadn't he developed thicker skin about this mutant business? But he can't stop thinking about Sylvy Vale, and perhaps the year on board a ship with aliens and gods and everything in between had made him feel staggeringly normal for a change. He kisses that notion goodbye with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.
Dammit. He didn't even mean to be here. He'd just been investigating the Ingress, but he remembers, just barely, that slip and fall and going straight through and -- and then it was like waking up from anesthesia, no dream or sleep or stretch of time between, just blink and suddenly he's on goddammit he's not supposed to be here. He wasn't finished there, much as he'd wanted to be gone. He has promises to keep -- his word to keep. And it's so frigging cold.
But once the initial shock wears off, he's confronted with a whole new dizzying fact: that whatever made the Ingress malfunction and snatch people at random from different worlds is happening here, too. That's a reality check, or -- lack of one, he guesses, but his mind is already frantic with too many unpleasant possibilities. There's no Ingress here, there's nothing here like that, and even touching on the thought of how this might be affecting Barrayaran -- galactic history is more then a little nauseating. He doesn't know whether he's supposed to interfere or stay the hell away or -- oh, God, his grandfather is here. His grandmother, too, probably. And he's in his frigging Moira uniform, of all things. Fuck.
At least the small deluge of outsiders offers some...weirdly familiar comfort. At least a couple of them make him look sort of normal by comparison.
a1. barrayaran camp - maple mead A chance to get drunk on maple mead? That doesn't ordinarily go all that well, but haha, Miles doesn't even have his pain medication to cause a pharmaceutical conflict of interest, and alcohol will probably keep him out of hysterics. The added benefit of it being after dark means he can mostly keep away from the firelight of the soldiers' campfire, and maybe not get unduly harassed while he sits against a cold rock to nurse a cup of good ol' Barrayaran moonshine.
a2. barrayaran camp - the help The best thing Miles's overstimulated mind can think of while he's still trying to process all of this is to just keep out of the goddamn way, although he's still wrestling with the notion of trying to control the situation at all. Are the other outsiders -- transplants -- whatever here already irreparably damaging what's probably a fragile timeline, or can he still minimize the damages with prior knowledge, maybe? That'd mean facing his grandfather eventually, and that...
Miles isn't really ready for that.
So instead he's trying to make himself as useful as he can with a broken leg and being as small as he is, which isn't very, which is frustrating as hell, but he has, at least, managed to pick up a Barrayaran-native sort of pine brush to sweep the snow off the sides of the tents, because he can't really reach the top. Or maybe he could, if he climbed up on one of the rocks nearby. They look a little icy, but after the last year and the last day Miles isn't about to admit defeat to a couple of icy boulders, and the drive to make himself useful, to be doing anything is overpowering. God help him the day he misses being Waste Disposal Technician.
Miles has to set aside his stick-crutch to pull himself up onto the first rock, balancing carefully on his one good leg with one hand braced against the rock face behind the tents. The next step goes about as well as expected: Miles abruptly slips on his attempted ascent to the next rock and lets out a strangled yelp that turns into a frustrated and pained snarl as he lands neatly facedown in the snow.
Wonderful.
wildcard hit me with whatever i'm here to make miles suffer
miles vorkosigan (savrou crau) | vorkosigan saga | ota
And his frigging leg is still broken.
At least it's not old tech plaster cast and he doesn't have to worry about getting it wet from the snow, but he barely manages to hobble around until he finds himself a sturdy enough stick to use as a crutch. No asking for help from the villagers, of course, he could barely get a word out edgewise before all the hex signs, once they'd had a look at his broken leg, the other one in a brace, and...all of him. It bothers him more than he'd like -- hadn't he developed thicker skin about this mutant business? But he can't stop thinking about Sylvy Vale, and perhaps the year on board a ship with aliens and gods and everything in between had made him feel staggeringly normal for a change. He kisses that notion goodbye with a bitter taste in the back of his mouth.
Dammit. He didn't even mean to be here. He'd just been investigating the Ingress, but he remembers, just barely, that slip and fall and going straight through and -- and then it was like waking up from anesthesia, no dream or sleep or stretch of time between, just blink and suddenly he's on goddammit he's not supposed to be here. He wasn't finished there, much as he'd wanted to be gone. He has promises to keep -- his word to keep. And it's so frigging cold.
But once the initial shock wears off, he's confronted with a whole new dizzying fact: that whatever made the Ingress malfunction and snatch people at random from different worlds is happening here, too. That's a reality check, or -- lack of one, he guesses, but his mind is already frantic with too many unpleasant possibilities. There's no Ingress here, there's nothing here like that, and even touching on the thought of how this might be affecting Barrayaran -- galactic history is more then a little nauseating. He doesn't know whether he's supposed to interfere or stay the hell away or -- oh, God, his grandfather is here. His grandmother, too, probably. And he's in his frigging Moira uniform, of all things. Fuck.
At least the small deluge of outsiders offers some...weirdly familiar comfort. At least a couple of them make him look sort of normal by comparison.
a1. barrayaran camp - maple mead
A chance to get drunk on maple mead? That doesn't ordinarily go all that well, but haha, Miles doesn't even have his pain medication to cause a pharmaceutical conflict of interest, and alcohol will probably keep him out of hysterics. The added benefit of it being after dark means he can mostly keep away from the firelight of the soldiers' campfire, and maybe not get unduly harassed while he sits against a cold rock to nurse a cup of good ol' Barrayaran moonshine.
a2. barrayaran camp - the help
The best thing Miles's overstimulated mind can think of while he's still trying to process all of this is to just keep out of the goddamn way, although he's still wrestling with the notion of trying to control the situation at all. Are the other outsiders -- transplants -- whatever here already irreparably damaging what's probably a fragile timeline, or can he still minimize the damages with prior knowledge, maybe? That'd mean facing his grandfather eventually, and that...
Miles isn't really ready for that.
So instead he's trying to make himself as useful as he can with a broken leg and being as small as he is, which isn't very, which is frustrating as hell, but he has, at least, managed to pick up a Barrayaran-native sort of pine brush to sweep the snow off the sides of the tents, because he can't really reach the top. Or maybe he could, if he climbed up on one of the rocks nearby. They look a little icy, but after the last year and the last day Miles isn't about to admit defeat to a couple of icy boulders, and the drive to make himself useful, to be doing anything is overpowering. God help him the day he misses being Waste Disposal Technician.
Miles has to set aside his stick-crutch to pull himself up onto the first rock, balancing carefully on his one good leg with one hand braced against the rock face behind the tents. The next step goes about as well as expected: Miles abruptly slips on his attempted ascent to the next rock and lets out a strangled yelp that turns into a frustrated and pained snarl as he lands neatly facedown in the snow.
Wonderful.
wildcard
hit me with whatever i'm here to make miles suffer