08.26.3013: Crawling On My Belly
Summary: Miller has a conversation with the Hostile captive, and Sarah gets angry.
Date: 26 August 2013
Related: All of Sarah's logs.
Sarah Miller 

Orielon Watch House, Landing
The Watch House on Orielon Street is a squat, bulldog of a building admist all the chaos of the Westend. The exterior of the cuboid structure is dark grey and innocuous with luminous square windows that are kept strategically high, and it is known that the glass is reinforced. There is one public access point, with emergency exits that lead out to the neighboring alleyways. A set of double doors lead into the moderately boring entry. It is square, walls painted in a color what most reassure is eggshell. Security doors flank a high desk with reinforced glass in front of it, and there is always a Sergeant manning the desk. Visitors are required to check in before they are given access to the various hallways and bays of lifts beyond.

The rest of the building is a series of floors which contain an armory, offices for the various departments within the Watch House, and the holding cells. The latter of these are kept in the basement levels with numerous fail-safes. Each cell is contained with an electrostatic forcefield with back-up blastdoors which will seal should there be critical power failures. Most cells can hold up to three average-sized individuals, but there are small cells meant for isolation.

August 26, 3013

It is just another day for Sarah 113 of 158. She has been at the Watch House for several days now, under constant watch and isolated in the deep basement of the squat and sturdy building. The corridors and cells have been empty since she arrived, maintaining an intense segregation from any unauthorized member of the Havenite population. As part of some kind of arrangement, she has been given full use of her arms and legs as long as no one else is in her cell, but when the questioning resumes, she is forced to sit and all four limbs are deactivated for the length of interrogation. Since her cell is currently empty, she paces. The bruise that had swollen up the left side of her face has softened and yellowed. She keeps her eyes averted, watching her feet move across the floor as she strides from one end to the other, turns around, and repeats.

It wasn't exactly Miller Krasny's idea that they put the Hostile in his Watch house, but when you're given orders that eventually come down from the King himself, who is he to really say otherwise? This however doesn't mean that his duties can't be shuffled off onto others, he has a job to do, and beyond that, it's just another day in the office. This also means he has to go through a series ID and retinal scans until he finally finds himself down in the basement. "Alright guys," he says, pushing a cart in with him. "Shift's done. Go home." Guess it's his turn to babysit the captor that's demanded twenty-four hour surveilance. The other reason he's down here? To clean the other cells. They may not need to be, but just going through the motions reminds him that it still needs to be done.

Sarah has been a rather model prisoner, perhaps to everyone's surprise. There has been no attempt to break out, no assaults against the guards who watch over her, or any other disruptive behavior. She can hear the footsteps of the approaching guard, but she does not cease as she steps up to one wall, turns, and starts to pace in the other direction. Her luminous blue eyes do not lift, though there is a certain way her body tenses that suggests she is now closely listening to those footfalls. When she turns at the other wall, she takes note of Miller with the simplest glance.

The pair of guards seem releived their shift is over, likely having been there for more than a couple of hours, just standing there. A few mentions of 'Thanks Sergeant,' and then off they go. Once they're gone, Miller follows them, making sure that the door is locked, as per security regulations. Then, he moves back to a simple desk set a bit back of Sarah's cell. "Privet, Sarah." he notes idly, flipping through a folder, pen taken out to check a few things: check in, items brought in with him, visual state of the prisoner. It's tossed back onto the table. "Got dinner you, da?" That's just one of the items that's taken from cart. A tray of food. "Don't know about you, but I can't stand Watch house food. Figure we'd both be more content with something a bit more…edible." he notes, even if he doesn't expect her to reply. Stepping to the cell door, a small slot is opened, and brown paper bag is pushed through. It's a club sandwich with bacon, small bag of chips, and small can of soda. The slot is then closed and locked afterward. As for Miller, he has a likewise dinner that's dropped ont he desk, the Sergeant plopping himself in his seat and propping his legs up on the desk.

"I was given sustenance earlier," Sarah says blandly as she continues to pace. Her gaze does drop toward the paper bag, narrowing her blue eyes at it. "Your people's insistence that I eat your foods is quite commendable, but I am told that ration packets are being synthesized." Those would be the disgusting goo bags that most Hostiles carry. They are relatively perfect, balanced with carbohydrates, proteins, fats, vitamins, and minerals, but they are almost like eating raw, slightly salty gelatin. It appears that the Hostiles do not believe in "cherry flavored" either. Her own curiosity, however, does get the better of her, as in her next pass, she pauses to grab the paper bag. She sniffs its exterior.

"If you don't want to eat it, you don't have to." Miller shrugs, digging in himself. "Up to you." For his part, she's just another inmate in a facility that he, in part at least, helps run. While he doesn't have to sit here on graveyard shift, he does anyways, because it's better than the alternative. There's a sharp snap-crack-hiss of his soda, thumb and finger working the tab. "I'm sure as hell not going to eat ration bars when I have another choice. Did enough of that already." Clicking his tounge, he eyeballs the empty cells on either side of her's. A snort. Taking one last bite and drink, he gets up to inspect one of the cell on the right side, making sure that nothings missing or out of order. It's a very deliberate motion, likes he's the motions are automatic, not even thinking about what he's doing. Just doing it.

"Food is for nutrient value," Sarah says, a hint of confusion in that simple statement. "If rations provide you with all the nutrients you require to sustain, why would you not just continue to eat them?" It is a curious question posed by a somewhat curious entity. She carefully sits in the chair that is often used for interrogation, and she peels open the bag. She looks inside, staring at the wrapped sandwich, the foil bag, and the slender can. She removes the latter, turning the object over in her hand thoughtfully.

"Nothing wrong with enjoying, da?" is Miller's response, as if that simple statement explains the entire reasoning. "Granted, just because it tastes good doesn't mean it's good for you but…it's one's own fault if they eat nothing but burgers and shakes every day. Spontinaity?" The cop shrugs it off, running his finger across the sink of an empty. "Sinks not cleaned, floors dusty…" he says to himself, a mental note to write that down in his review. Going back to his desk, he picks out a large case from the cart. Might look like a weapon holder, but upon cracking it, it's anything but. Rather it's an acustic guitar. Taking the same seat(legs propped up, of course), he casually begins to strum the strings, practicing chords.

While he speaks, Sarah unpacks the bag further. The can is set aside, but upside down, and then the wrapped sandwich, followed by the bag of chips. She stares at them for a long moment, as if processing them with a kind of methodical attention. Then she looks up toward the sound of his voice. "I don't understand… I don't understand the enjoyment of sustenance." Then she turns away from the food line-up, glancing toward the Watchman once more. She stares at him with those bright, luminous eyes. They narrow at the sight of the instrument, and the noise it makes.

"Just as I don't understand the ideal of the same kind of nutrient paste day in, day out, regardless of nutritional benefits." Miller points out. "That doesn't mean I think that it's wrong, only that it's not for me. I could live like that if I really wanted to, but I have so few small joys in life, at least a decent well-made meal can be one of them. But, is it needed? No, but it is wanted. So I make the choice to have a club sandwich and a cola for dinner. Maybe tomorrow I'll have pad thai noodles." While he might not be a professional musician, he's no amateur either and can play a pretty decent tune he's spurned to.

Sarah looks at Miller quizzically through the static field that separates the Hostile from her watcher. She straightens up a bit in her seat as she rubs her hands down over her thighs, cupping her palms over her knees idly. "So, you indulge in particular tastes because it pleases you, not because it is necessary," the Hostile determines. Then she looks up at the music once more. "The beat is too slow," she finally critiques.

Miller stops playing for a moment to twist one of the tuning knobs at the guitar's head. "What's necessary? Food, shelter, clothing. Everytihng else, when you boil it down trivial at best and petty at worst. Just depends on varrying degrees of desires and what you're able to live without. That's it. That's exsistance, in a nutshell. Still haven't figured the purpose, though, so I'll get back to you on that one." A glance over at her. "Practice the easy things first before moving onto something more complicated. But, I suppose I can oblidge you. Anyways, if there's one thing that I've noticed over my years of catching, interrogating, and then punishing criminals, is there's a lot triviality and pettiness in the world. I often wonder if it was this bad on Earth, but if we're any indication, I suspect it was. Take this war for example: trivial and petty. On both sides."

"Better," Sarah assesses of the beat, though that seems to be the only facet of the song she cares about. She remains seated, spine straight and hands resting on her knees. She relaxes a bit, the center of her irises turning around the bright center of her pupils. She lifts her chin a little bit as he mentions Earth, and she merely shrugs her shoulders a bit at the thoughtful words. "Do you know why they are keeping me here?" She asks after a moment.

"That's above my paygrade Sarah, I'm just a soldier and a cop. I'm not important enough to know why you're being held, but I can probably take a stab at it." Miller notes. "And that's the fact that you exsist, that you're alive, and you're an unknown. I wouldn't be shocked if you're being constantly watched, evaluating your way of thought, to get an insight into your culture. Or the nobility is busy debating how they're going to dissect and study you, I don't know. Personally, I think it's the wrong move, but I'm not paid to think if it doesn't involve my case files. Because they're too busy trying to think about what to do with you, rather than just talking to you. The idea of peace hasn't even entered their heads." He pauses, practicing a particular bar of chords over a few times. "And they should. Altruism, these days, or selfless ideals are few and far inbetween. War of revenge," he mutters, rolling his eyes at the last. "Bunch of selfish propaganda."

Very little emotion betrays her pale features as he provides all the possible outcomes Sarah may face. She does arch her reddish brows ever so slightly at the premise of peace, and she licks at her lip dryly. "Peace is an illusion," she finally says. "Peace from the Inner System perspective suggests that Cantos should surrender to your people, and that my kind will become subservient to yours." She maintains her gaze on him, staring without blinking for a long moment.

The music stops, and Miller sighs. "And that, Sarah, is why we'll end up destroying each other. There is no outcome where either of us will win. Failure is already a forgone conclusion, it's only a difference in how much of a failure and the length of time that'll take. If I had may way, I'd be fine with letting your people live the way you wanted, and mine the same, leaving each other be. Ideally, I'd prefer the idea of being able to co-exsist, without one subjagating the other. I don't think that necessary. I'll give you and idea on my people that I hate, da? Here goes."

The legs get slung off the table. "The news and nobility has us chasing ideas of revenge. And we work jobs in the name of a war none of us wanted. We've all been raised on being reminded of two previous wars, and that one day we'd all be heroes and martyrs and the underdog." And that's when his expression goes utterly -flat-. "But we won't. We're slowly learning that very fast. And we are very, very pissed off." He pauses to take a drink of soda. "Humans are sore losers. We don't like to lose. We like to win, and we have this idea that we still can. Me? I don't know, if I had any say I would either make peace, or shove us all in ships and leave this star system for somewhere else, and let you have it. Because it's not -worth- it. Which is what I mean by being sore losers. If we know we're going to lose, we'll take everyone with us, Sarah. Extreme measures, it's what we call 'mutually assured destruction'." He leans back then. "No one is going to win this war. We've already lost, it's just matter of seeing how deep each side can dig their graves and who gets their first the fastest."

Sarah just stares at him through the barrier, but she says nothing in reply for a long stretch of silence. Her cybernetic eyes remain locked on his figure, irises spiralling in and then out once more. "If the war is already lost," the Soldier says after a moment, "Release me. You will lose nothing more than you have already prepared yourself for… Release me."

"I'd like nothing more than to do that. If there was a first step to suggest trust and maybe end this war before there's more bloodshed, releasing might do that." Miller admits. "You're human, your DNA says as much. To me, you're just another person in cell, Cantonian or otherwise. Personally, I don't really agree you being held here without trial, but so long as you're under my Watch house, I can at least make sure you're treated decently. But, both sides, yours and mine, is so deadset on killing each other, pretty oblivious to any other kind of end result." He shrugs. "If you were in my position, what would you do? I don't know if Cantonians take prisoners of war, but imagine if they did, what would you do were our situations were reversed? Duty or personal motivations?"

"Cantosan," Sarah corrects him. She maintains her poise at his questions, his theorhetical situation. Her expression has become that unreadable mask once more, but she does lean back in her seat once more. "We do not take prisoners of war. Captives are harvested of organic materials. Prisoners of war do not serve a purpose to our cause or goals. You would not be asking me to release you because you would already be dead." These words are said systematically, casually, as if she is merely stating categorical fact. "If, by some decision of the Others, you were still alive… you would be shown what this war is really about."

"Da, as I thought. Well, it's at least nice to know how I'd die." Miller doesn't really seem all that bothered by hearing that kind of end result. Likely he's seen murder scenes that have unnerved him more. "And now you know why I can't release you." Settling his guitar aside, his expression is passive. "I wish we had never come here." he says suddenly. "You or I wouldn't know each other, nor would our races and millions on each side would not of had to of been sacraficed by each side's leadership simply demanding it be so. There is no point to this conflict, it serves no purpose, and by all regards, illogical. You want to know why?" he asks, looking around him. "Sarah, do you know what the term 'insanity' means? A definition for us is 'repeating the same thing and expecting a different result'. This is the third time we find oursevles in this situation. This war, this conflict, is insane."

Anger now starts to become evident in her otherwise unreadable features. Her fingers curl into her knees, staring dead ahead at the Watchman. "Then lay down your weapons, stand aside before our numbers, and allow us to finish what we came here to do. Drop the shield and I will do you the honors here and now… you find your thirst for survival illogical and insane, therefore let me ease you of that discomfort." Her fingers curl tighter into her legs, cybernetic digits clutched against her cybernetic knees. She goes silent, though it is easy to see how her anger simmers just at the surface.

"You're only proving my point, Sarah." Miller says, unphased by her evident anger. Years of interrogation has allowed him simply to watch. "Ah, but it's not survival I find illogical, war is. That's the point you're missing. I have no desire to kill your kind, your desire to kill me forces me to defend myself. It is odd that you think…" Suddenly he stops, tilting his head at her. "Could it be that simple?" that's said more to himself, looking at a point in the wall as if it's the most interesting thing in the world. "No, couldn't be." Then he turns on her. "You don't kill us for petty reasoning. You do it because you have to. Because your own survival depends on it."

Sarah is silent as she stares at him, those luminous blue eyes unfaltering from his own. "Haven has never cared about our survival," the Hostile says after a moment, her alto flat. She starts to stand from her seat, chucking the threesome of food items at the base of the static wall that divides the pair. The can clatters, the sandwich and chips crumpling. She says nothing as she steps away from her seat, striding back to the modest little bunk in the back of the cell. She doesn't seem to want to talk anymore.

"I don't know how we care about something that we didn't know exsisted until it started killing us." Miller not idly. "You hold me, all of us accountable for things that happened hundreds of years ago. And again, you came. And now again. How are we to know when there has never been a dialoge? Or if there were, nobody alive was around for it. And yet, here we are, all over again, in the same insanity. -That- is why there no purpose to this war. We are fighting, what? The ideals of ghosts?" It's not so much that he's angry so much as he's finding her childish. "Where does it end, Sarah? When we're all dead? Is that what you want? Until there is nothing left of both Havenites and Cantosans? Until all our worlds are ash, when aliens visit our worlds and wonder why these people had destroy each other into oblivion. What is it? Do you need out genetic material to reproduce? Or are you clones? Or is it simple petty hatred that drives you? The same petty hatred that drives -everyone- on both sides?" He turns away, shaking his head. "I want a reason to care, Sarah. Give me one."

"I do not need you to care," Sarah replies in her flat alto. Her luminous blue eyes narrow slightly at him. "If you suffered as my people have suffered, then you would not be so quick to call the hatred we have toward the Inner System petty. That is your flaw," she says, her voice gaining a slight edge to it. "You think that by calling it petty and insane and illogical and pointless that you are the better person for it, that you have risen above it, that you will be all the wiser than those who sit at the highest seat in your halls… but really… you are blinder, deafer, and dumber. They at least know what they are fighting for."

"You have no idea how wrong that is." Miller states simply. "I think myself better? Nyet, far from. You believe I'm dumb for thinking that this war is pointless? Well, from my perspective, it is. Because clearly, I don't know all the facts. As for them? Fighting for -what-, exactly? What are we fighting for? Defense? Protection? What if there didn't need to be a reason, because nobody stopped and tried asking questions first. What do you think I've been doing? Where everyone else wants you dead, wants to tear your body apart and then look at makes you tick and then think of better ways at killing your kind. Is that right? Is that even just? They didn't ask, -am I-. And right now, I'm about the only person on Haven who gives a damn what -you- think, not viewing you as a lab rat. If I think all this hate on both sides is petty, then tell me why it isn't. Tell me, so maybe there's a chance at salvaging before our races before it's too late. I'm offering you the chance to tell your story when no one else will listen. I -want- to understand. You say your people have suffered because of Havenites, tell me how. My job, my life, is protecting people. If I can help stop this war, then I did my job."

"It is war," Sarah says firmly in response to his questions of what his own people may intend to do to her. "They will do unto me as we would have done unto them." Her lips curl back over her teeth slightly, though the snarl is a quick-lived expression that fades back quickly into that otherwise placid countenance. "I do not need your protection, Havenite." There is a brief lapse of silence before she continues, her alto flat once more. "There are enough now that have heard my story… go… talk to them." She turns her shoulder to him, settling into her bunk. No more to be said it seems.

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