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Barrayar ⚔ Cetaganda ⚔ The Invasion

Have you read the FAQ?

The Village ⚔ The Barrayaran Camp ⚔ The Cetagandan Base ⚔ The Fight

You've been on Barrayar for a while now, and you're finally starting to adjust. Or maybe you're not. Maybe this is all still too much for you – the attacks, the constant raids, living in the middle of a war zone by no choice of your own. But if you want to live long enough to make it back home one day, you might as well do what you can to help the war effort. Besides, where else are you going to go?

The fierce Barrayaran winter rages even to the southern end of the continent, and it's been none too kind to Vorkosigan's District. Temperatures at sea level are well below freezing, and up in the mountains, it's even colder. Several inches of snow already blanket most of the mountains all the way down to the Cetagandan base, and the storm that's just started up is only bringing more down. Visibility is low in the flurries, wind swirling snow everywhere, and God help you if you get lost on your own out in the storm. Nights are cold, these days.

A recent attack on the Cetagandan base has left half their facilities damaged and in disarray. Raid parties snuck in by night, planting bombs in previously scouted locations for maximum effect. Damage to the base's water treatment plant and organic grow labs have considerably impacted the Cetagandans' food and water supply, and in the chaos caused by the explosions, the Barrayaran guerrillas raided their medbay and made off with a considerable bounty of medical supplies. One man's bane is another man's boon, and while the Cetagandans have reserve supplies to sustain them for now, some of the damage is extensive and the repairs will take time. But in the meantime, the Barrayarans have scored a precious victory as well as equally precious resources.

the village
The Riverfall villagers are used to the harsh winters of the Dendarii mountains, and though they don't have much themselves, they are happy to offer what they can in terms of cold-weather clothing and extra blankets to those allied with the guerrillas. Despite the cold, the hill children are going wild in the snow, and they may try to lure you into their play by sneakily pelting you with snowballs.

Cetagandan allies, however, may not be met so warmly, and at the first sight of ghem soldiers, any children out playing in the snow will be immediately ushered into their homes. Unaccompanied outsiders from the Cetagandan base might have an easier time talking to the hillfolk, but any attempt at digging information about the guerrillas out of them will get you stonewalled fast. A sneaky hill child or two may steal away from their home to approach one of the "bad guy" outsiders to sate their curiosity.

the barrayaran camp
Morale is higher than it has been in a while after their recent victory, and the guerrillas are in high spirits. And do they ever love their spirits – as night falls, most of the Barrayarans gathered around the campfires are enjoying the deceptively named, dangerously alcoholic moonshine they call maple mead. It might start out sweet, but it burns all the way down, and a few glasses of that stuff will tank even the heaviest Barrayaran soldier.

But the storm rages on despite their celebration, and preparations must be made. Clearing as much snow off the tents as possible will help ensure that no tents collapse overnight, the horses need to be tended to, and the officers are always running training drills. Food is in real supply now, but the guerrillas need help foraging and hunting nonetheless. And when night falls, you'll have to find a way to keep yourself warm – it's a good thing there are a cozy ten of you to a tent.

the cetagandan base
The Cetagandans outnumber their guerrilla enemies almost seventy-to-one, so their base has not been completely devastated, but it hardly looks to be the work of a few raiding parties. Nothing is beyond repair, but the water treatment plant has been taken offline, which means that all water is now locally sourced and must be treated by hand with purification tablets. No one in the base will starve, but fresh food is mostly unavailable until they get the grow labs back online, which means that meals are mostly comprised of ration bars and MREs. Morale isn't exactly at an all-time low, but none of the ghem officers seem to be in a good mood.

They won't hesitate to put you to work, either. They need all the engineers and laborers they can get for the grow labs and the treatment plant, and the medbay's inventory needs to be thoroughly audited before they can send a request for more supplies. But if you need a break, it's not too hard to slip away for a little quiet downtime. Some of the lower-ranked ghem ladies might let you participate in some more artistic activities, or maybe some of the enlisted soldiers who are a little more used to you by now might invite you into one of their Cetagandan games of strategy. Or, since the treatment plant only affected potable water, you could appreciate your comfortable surroundings and take a nice hot soak in the bathroom while everyone else is working.

the fight
PVP
You're in the midst of a skirmish with the other side -- maybe you signed up for the battle, maybe you just got caught up in the fight -- but at least it's easy to tell who's on what side. Only one side is wielding swords, and the other guns.

But then you come across someone who doesn't look like they're either -- not one of the rugged Barrayarans or the face-painted Cetagandans, but an outsider, an exotic like you. They must be. So do you fight?

RECON
Maybe you're not on the front lines, but there's plenty more to winning the war than just fighting. You're partnered with another outsider on recon; the ground is cold, and you try not to let your shoes crunch too loudly on snow as you scout, scanning for patrols or supply lines.

Or maybe you're with the Cetagandans, hiking it thorugh the mountains with one of your fellow exotics in an attempt to locate the enemy camp. Except it's damned cold, and there's hidden ice everywhere, and everything is starting to really look the same.

--

Feel free to write prompts for your character on either side -- you don't have to choose just one for the TDM! Just label it clearly so folks know. GO WILD, MY FRIENDS

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh, hell. The only worse thing than falling flat on your face -- ha -- like this is for someone else to witness it. Miles doesn't really have time to process the fact that the strangers voice sounds startlingly familiar before he pushes himself up with his other arm with a grunt to roll over -- and then promptly falls on his back in shock. His mouth falls open, he tries to make noise, but he manages only a strangled, choked noise first.

"Mark?"

It's really the only logical conclusion that leaps to mind, except...not. Definitely not. Oh, what the hell.

The exact same comment rises to Miles' lips as well - caught only by the fact that it's tumbling out of this mirror's mouth first. Mark? he thinks anyway, sharp gray eyes taking in the spindly little man in front of him. No, definitely not. His Mark has gained a significant amount of weight, first and foremost, and he just can't picture his solid little brother face down in the snow like this. Calling other people Mark like he's surprised to see them.

No, something much weirder is going on here. Miles thought the time travel and the worst era of Barrayaran history was bad enough. Clearly, the Nexus is out to prove him wrong.

"No, I don't think so," is his response, paired with a grin as sharp and dangerous as a scimitar. If it's not Mark, then he's clearly looking at some kind of Cetagandan nonsense. (A third clone in truth? Oh god, spare the world from yet another poor bastard running around with his and Mark's genes.) "Who the hell are you?" He'd been grabbing the other man to help him up, but now he's decided to keep a firm grip on him instead. Just in case.

Edited 2016-11-26 21:08 (UTC)

Miles's teeth clench as the other Miles elects not to let go of his arm, partly to brace himself, partly in response to that uncomfortably familiar grin. He bares his teeth almost automatically, though he doesn't quite match the razor smile. No -- not Mark. Mark had been an uncomfortable mirror, but of the funhouse sort. This man is just a mirror, all too sharp, clear as glass. Miles thinks back to the reflection he'd seen in the nighttime glass on Caducus Primary -- his future self, right? That's what Ivan had seen. Him and his frigging captain's tabs. God.

Miles reels his mind in rapidly, frantically, trying to keep up with his pounding heart already trying to escape from his chest. He's looking at his own face, and he thought meeting Mark was disconcerting, but this -- this...almost makes sense. It might. It would have, on the Moira, but the situation here seems so creepily similar. There were people from the same world on the Moira, but some of them had been from...different timelines. Different times. There'd been more than one Loki at one point, God help them all, so this -- this isn't as impossible as he'd like to think. A cracked wheeze that might've been the beginnings of a hysterical laugh escapes him.

"Miles Naismith Vorkosigan," he breathes, unable to tear his eyes away from his -- his own face. God, this is creepy. His expression finally cracks into a grin, with emphases on cracked. If he looks any saner than he feels right now, it's a miracle. "And so you are you."

Miles has no such point of reference for this kind of insanity. He's met both his gran'da and his da in their time-displaced forms, and there's the whole Barrayaran camp itself - but no actual duplicates. No evidence that such a thing is even an effect of all this multiversal kidnapping until ... now? Is that what he's looking at here? It makes a certain kind of sense. If the same effect can pull both Aral and Miles from disparate points in their timeline, then why not two of Miles? Why not an army of Miles?

(No one deserves an army of Miles, not even Cetaganda.)

In the end it's that breathless, insane almost-laugh that gets him. The same noise is buried within his own chest too, just superseded by the healthy paranoia that's also grown up around him over the past few days. "Miles Ilyan," he says, with no small amount of sarcasm edging out his already sharp tones. "Much safer name. Strongly advise borrowing it if we're going to be sharing faces."

If he hasn't, y'know, finally snapped and gone insane. He's not yet ruled that possibiliy out.

Miles wishes he could rule that possibility back in, because logic -- no, not logic, there's nothing logical about this -- experience tells him that this is very much in the realm of possibility. There's a chance he's hallucinating all this, but he'd thought that about the Moira, too.

His eyebrows twitch up at that and he chokes out another laugh at that -- not funny, well, a little funny, everything's a little funny right now. He's still not totally sure he's got this figured out, and he's still dizzy from it, and did he hit his head on the fall? Shit. "Illyan, eh? Smart," he says, and he can't tell if this counts as self-aggrandizement or not. "Mother's name's a little too Betan-sounding. Though I guess it's not too late to claim to be the putative third clone Admiral Naismith if I swap accents. On second thought, better not."

Not after that little episode he'd had a few months back. He pushes himself up into a proper sitting position, rubbing his face with his free hand. He looks about as strung-out as he feels. It's so weird to look back at the other Miles's face, but when he does, he realizes the other one's older. Maybe not as apparent to anyone else, but Miles knows his own face.

"Two Miles Illyans, though? Shame our grandfathers only had two names each, we're running out. Might have to switch to grandmothers at this rate. Olivia Elizabeth?" He chokes down another half-wheeze and reels in his high-speed babbling before he starts to talk himself into hysterics. He bites the inside of his cheek. "I can't decide if this is weirder for you or for me. Please tell me I'm not the only one getting an existential headache here."

Dear god, he thinks, staring down at the man below him, have I always been this hyperactive? Well - yes, apparently, though now the stream of babble makes his head hurt. (He can't tell if the thing giving him the headache is the noise itself or the fact that he's thought through the same scenario himself, in similar terms. It's like a psychic echo chamber.)

There are other differences too, now that Miles is letting himself actually look at the man below him in anything approaching detail. No telltale spiderweb of needler scars at his chest, nor the matching lines from his pre-cryo blood draining. A slightly softer face, with slightly fewer pain lines. No lingering grayness from a recent seizure ... What the hell is going on here? He needs himself to shut up for a moment so he can think. And pace. Preferably both.

"You're enough of a headache for the both of us," he says, reducing his two-handed grip down to one so that he can massage his temples with the other. "Just - give me a moment. Dear god. How old are you?"

Miles's brows draw down in kneejerk indignation at that remark, and he honestly can't tell if it's better or worse coming from himself. Both, feels like. God, if he keeps trying to puzzle that out he really will drive himself insane, but despite his...er, prior experience with this sort of thing, he hasn't managed to reconcile this with any kind of reality. Schroedinger's insanity, or something.

He opens his mouth to object with something like God, you sound like Galeni, but then the other Miles asks him a clear question he can actually answer, and his mouth snaps shut for a moment's thought. Maybe he did hit his head, that'd explain the headache.

"Twenty-six, I think. I was twenty-five, but it's been at least a year, so..." It doesn't occur to him yet that this isn't going to make much sense to the other Miles, and maybe he ought to back up and start explaining, but he looks back at his other self in equal inquiry, taking in the extra lines on his face. Definitely older, and -- Miles's eyes drop to the other man's neck, thin white scars visible above his collar. His face pales. "How old are you?"

(Please don't tell this Miles he sounds like Galeni. He would not take the comparison well.)

Twenty-five. Or twenty-six, depending on whatever the fuck that comment meant. Miles sucks in a breath, clearly calculating in his head. Twenty-five ... that was the year he'd been on Earth, wasn't it? After the encounter on Earth, given that this man had called him Mark at first. But long before the events that had led to his own death.

The thought makes him go utterly still for a moment even as his mind kicks into high gear. He repeats his earlier look, flicking his gaze over younger Miles' neck and confirming what he'd seen earlier: no cryo-revival scars. This version of himself hasn't died yet. This version hasn't made the mistake that Miles had, might never have to ... The same ragged, cracked sort of laugh that had been building in his own throat - had already escaped his younger self's - suddenly explodes past his lips. Is this the answer the universe is giving him? You're doomed, Miles Vorkosigan, but here's another chance for your past self?

"Thirty," he answers at last, when the laugh subsides into a choked cough. "As of - god, I don't even know any more. A few weeks ago?"

Alright, it's sort of alarming that the other Miles lets out that laugh now, but then again, everything about this is alarming, including the look on his face. Miles sees his own glance mirrored in his apparently older self, and his hand automatically goes to his throat, then jerks up the collar of his Moira uniform in that stupid little tic he'd developed ever since he'd seen his stupid reflection on that stupid and now very gone planet. This, he thinks, is not very encouraging.

"Thirty," he echoes, his voice just as strangled, and his cracked grin turns to a bleak smile. "Glad to see I've lived that long."

Or not. His stomach is heavy with lead, his gaze tugged back to the scars on the other Miles's throat. God, please tell him it's something else.

Miles' expression likely does little to assuage that leaden block. His own expression shifts to a mix of regret and pity, tinged with a painful sort of hope. Ah, his alternate has already noticed the scars. That will make this simultaneously easier and more painful.

He stands abruptly at that, letting go of his younger self temporarily to offer him a hand instead. This is a topic that's going to need maple mead. Lots of it. For the first time since being dragged into this mess ... Miles is kind of glad he's here. "Don't be too grateful just yet," he says, by way of temporary answer. "Come on. You don't want this explanation dry, trust me."

Trepidation washes over Miles's face at that response. It's ominous as hell on its own, and coming from himself...suddenly Miles wishes he didn't know himself so well. Maple mead sounds like a sound choice, but he's not sure it'd go so well with the lead in his stomach. No -- no, to hell with the cryptic waiting bullshit. He can't believe he's pulling that one on himself, or that he's -- having it pulled on him -- dammit --

"No -- wait," Miles says breathlessly, if only because it feels like his chest is laced too tight to breathe. He doesn't take the other Miles's hand yet, his own palms oddly sweaty despite the cold. His eyes don't leave the other man's face, his own face still paler than usual. "I'll go with you, I think I'll need a drink either way, but just -- just tell me -- do I die? Did you die?"

He hates to do this to himself. He really, really does. If he were in his alternate's position, clearly aware that something had happened but not knowing what - he'd be beside himself with terror. Is beside himself with terror. (But Miles needs a drink just to tell this story, dammit. The wound is so fresh still it hurts even to try and comprehend the full breadth of its effect.)

Yes or no. It's not such a hard question to answer, is it? Put himself out of his misery. "Yes," he says at last, and he looks much older than even thirty for a moment. This is a man who is utterly, totally lost. At his lowest point after his discharge, before Simon's medical issues and the resulting auditorship ... "Yes. I died. Haven't figured out how to keep living again after that."

Realistically, Miles couldn't expect a no to that question, unless it was accompanied by a truly ludicrous story, though that wouldn't be out of line, considering his life -- funny you should ask, I had a nasty accident with some glass... -- but the look on his other self's face is so...haunted. Dying's no treat, he would know, but it hadn't left him like that. Had his older self died just as painfully? God, this is going to require a drink. Several drinks.

But beyond the immediate reaction of his other self, it's an answer to a question that's been plaguing him for months, nearly a year, and it isn't as nearly as much of a relief as he thought it might be. He doesn't know what he expected. With an agonized groan, Miles falls back onto the snow like a limp puppet, looking exhausted.

"Again?" He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will away the image of his future self he'd seen on Caducus Primary, except that man's right beside him now. "I knew it. Shit."

Again? Did his younger self just say again? It cuts through the self piteous fog that had been looming uncomfortably close just now. "What do you mean, 'again'?" he says, watching his younger self go slack in the snow. Now is likely not the time for this, but - dammit, the absence of anything solid to hold onto, he can't help but follow the thread laid before him. "You've died before? How? When?"

And how the fuck did he manage to get killed and not remember it afterwards?

Right. He's going to have to catch this other Miles up on...a lot of things that haven't happened to him, evidently. Now there's a thought to throw him for a loop. If he's the only one who spent all that time on the Moira, then are they even really the same person? Doesn't just this meeting make them fundamentally different? Fuck. Miles pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You're right. We need drinks if we're going to swap stories." He opens his eyes and blows out his breath, no more easily than before. He rolls his head to the side to give his older self a thoroughly bleak smile before he starts to push himself back up. Where'd that stick go... "I don't think you're going to like mine."

Miles' gaze flicks between his younger self's broken leg and the stick resting in the snow. No points for figuring that one out. He stoops to grab it for him, offering the rudimentary crutch for his alternate to take.

Yes. Drinks all around. And then instant regret, probably. Miles can tell just by looking at himself that he's not going to enjoy this round of storytelling either ... "I know a place," he says. "Come on. If two of us muties show up at once, I guarantee we'll have the place to ourselves." Or just terrorize the locals into reporting to Piotr, but fuck everything right now.

A little instant regret might be refreshing, at this point, and if Miles is going to die again anyway -- and apparently come out of it looking...well, not terrible -- then maybe he can afford to abuse his liver a little. He gratefully takes the stick from the other Miles and pushes himself to his feet, a little shakily, but one broken leg's only so much of a hindrance to him. His smile is tight and thin-lipped, still a little too pale, but maybe once it's out it'll be...out.

"Oh yeah?" He tries for an offhand laugh, but it just comes out as another wheeze. Yeah, that hadn't been a great fall. "Where's that?"

It'll be a brand new liver by then, anyway, so if anything his younger self should have more reason to drink. Miles stands to one side of his alternate, offering an arm if he'll take it. On the one hand, he knows how stubborn he is ... on the other hand, who better to get help from than himself?

"Well. Less of a place, admittedly, and more of a person," he says, trying to sound nonchalant himself. "There's a woman here I've been helping translate for. Deals a lot with us interlopers. Makes a damn fine batch of mead." May in fact be terrified by two of them showing up, but eh. He'll take a quiet room and alcohol right now.

Miles opts not to take the proffered arm, playing into the stubborn as if to ward off the total disorientation of today, but he looks a little relieved at the promise of -- well, some form of relief, anyway. He limps alongside his older self, managing a decent pace even with the makeshift crutch. At least the brace on his good leg is a serious upgrade from the ones he'd had growing up.

"Really?" He casts a raised-eyebrow glance at the other Miles. "One of the hillfolk?"

If there's a friend to be had among the villagers, even if only a sort-of friend, that'd do the both of them some good.

Fair enough. Miles drops his arm but doesn't stray far, keeping an eye on his double's brace and his gait. Not bad ... Huh. He might even be a little bit jealous. As much as anyone can be jealous of having a broken leg.

He leads them further into the outskirts of the village, where there's a small home right up next to the forest's edge. "Just so," he says with a weak smile. "We talked a mercenary fleet into joining us. You can't be more surprised by one villager."

Except that hillfolk are infinitely more stubborn than the average mercenary, but. Details.

Miles lets out a snort. Yeah, he'd like to see how many of the Fleet it'd take to out-stubborn Harra Csurik. Now there's a thought...

"Well, I suppose I'm glad my initial impression of the village wasn't a blanket statement. Don't think the broken leg helped, though." Not just a mutant, but visibly crippled, too? Yeah, that's been a real wild ride. "I'm guessing she's making nice with the other transplants here, if she's getting your translation services."

Visibly crippled, yes. Miles gives his alternate's leg a second, more sympathetic look. "No, you're even worse off like that. I at least have the advantage of appearing healthy despite everything." Until he has his next seizure, anyway ... That may be the end of him right then and there.

Nothing to be done now. Enough to focus on untangling this double business, and getting a damn warning into this man. "She has been, yes. One made a good impression - saved her during a Ceta raid - and she's been warm since."

Stepping up to what passes for a front door, he raps on the doorframe. A quick call brings the woman in question: thirties, harried, and noticeably alone. She jolts at seeing double, and eyes the younger Miles' cast with disapproval.

Hell, that simple act makes Miles grateful toward her nameless rescuer. God only knows what's happening to the timeline now, but at least the outsiders can do a little to help the war effort.

Miles gives the woman a bright grin. "Hello, madam," he says in cheerful Barrayaran Russian. Way, way more cheerful than he feels, but really, he'd just like to sit down right now. "Don't worry, I'm not contagious." He demonstrates by way of giving his casted leg a firm knock, and then immediately winces. Bad idea.

The woman rolls her eyes a little - comments to the effect of being well aware of that fact - but relaxes. She's greatly cheered by the Barrayaran Russian coming out of this newcomer's mouth.

Time for Miles to nudge things along. "Don't mind my little brother," he says, his own cheer an eerie echo of his younger self's, tinged with a wicked layer of sarcasm. "Not very bright. If we could trouble you for a little shelter and a bottle of mead, I would be much obliged. Take it out of my pay."

Another eyeroll at that. She's immune to both these small men's charms, thank you very much. But she knows the value of a second translator when she sees one, and soon enough they have chairs by the fire and a bottle between them.

Miles gives his older self a dirty look at that editorial, but he heartily thanks their host. She's so very Dendarii, and he finds something deeply comforting about that. It helps that she's not making hex signs at him.

It isn't until he's settled in a chair with a cup of maple mead in hand that he gives his older self a look, saying, "Little brother? Really?"

he needs so, so much help

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