[Open]

[beautifulspaceraptor]

Who: Nihlus Kryik and you!!!
When: Pretty much whenever.
Where: Around the Moira!
What: Weird napping locations and sparring?
Warnings: Sparring??



Lord of Powernapping

Normally, you wouldn’t catch Nihlus dead sleeping. Not even Eric or Tyler have probably ever seen Nihlus really sleeping. Staying up with the blanket draped over him like some demented, huge bird and the glow of his omni-tool lighting the fabric up underneath, yes. Actual sleeping though?

Rare.

And yet, if you walked into the Cargo bay sometime this week, there’ll be a figure curled up against the side of the nearly finished fabricator with schematics laid out around his head like a bizarre halo. Or you’ll find Nihlus down one of the endless hallways, in a dark corner and leaning oddly against the wall with a broom held loosely against his chest (he’s not in Cleaning anymore, and yet). If one ever wanders into the engine room, there’s someone holed up under the pipes, tools scattered about him, but there’s no sound of things being tinkered with.

If one gets near enough, they could almost hear the very soft ‘chrrrchrrrchrr’s.

He’s not in as deep a slumber as he might seem, though.


Training Room

The ship is pretty much dead quiet. It’s a few days after the new arrivals and everyone was down on the Collectives.

It’s strange, but Nihlus found the silence peaceful for once. He finishes repairing that airlock, finalizes the repairs on some of the Scraplet damage and goes down to fiddle with the fabricator some more.

He’d debated going down for a supply run, but… that could wait a while more. They’d gotten a lot necessities through the Amissis-R and the Moira was going to be docked for a while yet from the looks of things.

So, for the first time in a while, Nihlus takes to the Sim room.

For anyone who walks in, they enter a room with tall, sloped ceilings and pale walls contrasted with warm tone lighting. The floor is lined with panels of what almost looked like nacre, the strange, iridescent material warm under barefoot. Wide windows streamed alien sunlight into the space, but if one tried looking out, they’d only be greeted by the vaguest outline of a silvery city through the brightness.

In the center of the room, Nihlus is decked out in his thermals and currently going through some sparring warm-ups with what looked like a red turian VI.

If you want to duke it out with a Spectre agent, now might your chance!


Wildcard!

((OOC: Ping me at zapperkat if you want to discuss a scene or have any questions!))

Comments

[a_perfect_end]

"Idle hands are prone to mischief." Slick and easy, one by one from the jawbone, covering visual assessment and a flicker of honest surprise for the returned ping, maybe even pleasure.

It's weirdly comforting, that at least one of them can hear.

"Nihlus," he tries it on. "I'll keep that in mind." The mechanical aptitude is filed away--though a cramped, overhot, and probably very loud engine room is manifestly not on Clu's list of favorite places.

For one thing, heat's bad for the circuits. He can feel it already, just a little, just in this room.

...There are talons in Nihlus' feet, too; that alters projections slightly as Clu raises his guard, both hands loose, close to his face.

"Depends." Casually, shifting on his feet, which looks a little like bouncing in place, to the unfamiliar. "Not like this. Weapons training, mostly."

It's a simple forward jab, crisp and almost conversational.

[beautifulspaceraptor]

"Hah. Well. Heaven forbid they get up to mischief."

In contrast to the shifting, Nihlus is almost completely still. There's a liquid ease in his form though, steady and primed.

"Weapons training?"

Rinzler? he wonders in silence as Clu makes his move.

That jab is smoothly deflected with back of a dark, scaled fist. Nihlus' knuckles glide briefly over a yellow circuit line, a fleeting touch, testing- then his hand turns inwards to try and clamp over Clu's forearm, free hand coming up to grab the back of the elbow. Unless stopped, the Spectre will execute a quick, tidy little step-turn and gently send the admin shoulder-first into the floor.

"You mean with disks?" he asks, undertones thrumming, light and playful.

[a_perfect_end]

Nihlus watches, alert and observant under that wonderful cadence of his. Clu is rapidly gaining the impression that he is at ease and still only because he chooses to be.

"Oh, yeah," warm, casual, the header for a nice list that shows off his phone-voice: "discs, stun staves, swords, when occasion warrants--"

The block is expected, swift and expert. The followup is not. Because that is a weakness, a soft and vital point, but probably not in the way Nihlus expects, a little frisson of electric feedback that twinges to his elbow. Scales? Scales are a new texture--

To grope him and then grab is out of bounds. Clu shakes that arm loose, firm and whiplash quick, clearing his throat, guard up.

"You asking me to dance?"

...Because that's not really what he was looking for, but it's also not a no.

[beautifulspaceraptor]

The way Clu jerked back definitely didn't seem entirely voluntary. Nihlus peers at him after stepping back out of reach, putting on a little startled expression for a good measure.

Interesting.

"I've heard the Terran idiom 'let's dance' in regards to fighting, but-" Insert a shrug here, awkward and halting. "I get the impression that might we have somewhat different experiences with hand-to-hand sparring, here. I'm sorry if I, ah, startled you?"

Not really, but the Spectre is awful good at sounding sincere.

Mandible quirking in an apologetic smile, he adds, "I wouldn't say no to a dance though."

[a_perfect_end]

Entirely voluntary, nothing; it's reflexive protection of personal personal space, reminding himself that the User world is different, that it wasn't intentional, and after all for Programs intent decides things--no offense meant and none received, and he'll just keep that sudden pop of charge to himself.

"Hah! Well, that too," lift of the eyebrow, toss of the head; no harm, no foul, it's all just good fun. "Stop me when I get too literal, huh? It's a thing we Programs do."

"I'm not hurt," full-body shrug. "You just...surprised me."

Well, hello, apologetic grin with fascinating external curvature--what is the purpose of this structure in nature, all planes and edges and sharp, predatory finish?

Meet the very best and most sincere boyish grin he stole from the grandad of all mischief-making layabouts. Is it real? Does that matter?

"You be careful;" it's a different harmonic, tinny in its electric too-precise mimicry, "or I'll just take you up on that someday."

He starts by lifting that arm; now, was it this way that he grabbed?

"Can you show me yours--I mean, what were you doing, before?"

Says the guy who has no idea he just volunteered to get thrown.

[beautifulspaceraptor]

The expression was familiar enough but there was something not-human about it, the same strange too-perfectness of Clu's subvocal mimicry. Rinzler's movements were similar in a way, human motions but inhumanly perfect, human-made but poles apart from their creators.

It'd probably have provoked an uncanny-valley reaction in an actual human, but the difference was just fascinating to someone on the outside of it. Nihlus' most powerful tool of his trade was being able to read people and the little peculiarities like these stood out, a strange little game of 'spot the differences'.

"I'll give you a little walk-through how about?" the Spectre offers, pausing a bit before moving closer again. "Might be a nice way to warm up to each other's moves. What do you think?"

In reach now, Nihlus stops and extends his own arm, but he doesn't touch just yet, waiting for Clu's response. Just to be doubly sure the guy'd be okay with how things were about to play out.

His palm hovers an appropriate finger's-width away from the inside of the admin's wrist and safely away from any glowing circuitry.