The beautiful behemoth made up of iron and steel, forged by the laborers much like his father, rumbles underfoot. Jayce watched for months and months as the carrier was built tedious bolt after tedious bolt, all the while his patron constantly reminded him to keep his eyes on the Medarda Clan's interests, and not those of the Capitol. The look on Lady Kiramman's face when Ambessa Medarda herself asked for an audience over high noon tea and expressed her direct interest in Jayce himself joining her family aboard the world's newest and grandest venture yet still burns bright in the back of his mind.
He should be with Madame Medarda now, tucked carefully at Mel's side to receive audience in the grand hall, but he's managed to slip away in the cover of the commotion. With the ship at sea, rumbling its way toward Cherbourg, each deck and corridor buzz with people of all classes. Even he feels somewhat out of place in his Piltover regalia, not quite made of the same stuff as the Medardas, and not quite the same as those in the underbelly of the ship. His mother had waved him on proudly from the shore, tears in her eyes, and he canβt help but wonder if thatβs exactly where he should be: on solid ground with her. But she had always known he would be made for bigger, better things.
He's not so sure.
The smell of salt and sea burns his nose as he steps out of the first class lounge and out onto the main deck, the sun bright and warming his skin. The waves lap hungrily at the belly of the beast and he spends a long time staring out over the rail, a leather-bound journal tucked under his arm, as though protecting it from falling into the spinning propellers below. He half expects for Lady Kiramman herself to slip out and tug him by the elbow, sternly beckoning him back inside to meet those important to the Council, to speak on the innovations and ideas he has for building bigger, better things than the Titanic itself.
How he could ever stand up to this? He doesn't know. Heβs not sure he wants to.
Instead of waiting for the inevitable trap, he wanders the decks, weaves his way into second class, then third, covertly slipping through doors left ajar by staff and crew, letting conduit and piping and circuitry guide him through the ship like each piece of brass and iron pointed straight into the heart of the ship itself.
Jayce knows that the moment he steps into the engine room, he's come too far. The turbine groans, the engines hiss as the pressure gauge rises and falls, rhythmically pushing the ship through the unruly waves, but he's completely enamored by every turnbuckle, every winch, every piston. So caught up is he that he barely registers someone else might be in the room with him, and that he, Jayce Talis, esteemed invited company of the Medarda and Kiramman Clan, should not at all be in the engine room.
The groan of the door, the sound of shuffled feet on the floor sends him reeling. He turns around and drops the bound journal on the ground, the covers fluttering open, revealing a smattering of sketches and scribbled notes- some mechanical, some of the tides, some of the patrons on the ship. ]
Sorry, I... well, I think I'm lost.
[ He's a bad liar, he doesn't sound at all like he even believes himself, and he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, smearing grease at his nape. ]
Just, ah, these are the engines, right? Triple expansion, steam powered? Single turbine, coal fueled? [ His white suit bears smudges of grease and oil, coal soot dusting his sleeves. He's not only been to the engine room, but all over the belly of the ship unsupervised. Jayce offers a weak, half-encouraging smile before scrambling for his journal and the pages askew on the filthy floor. ]
not here here in the engine room - though that's true enough as well, but...here. here aboard the grandest ship the world had ever seen with a third class ticket in his pocket that took month's worth of his parents' wages to secure, heavy with expectations and the whisper of things he'd never stopped dreaming of despite the arbitrary limitations placed on his shoulders. here with a suitcase stuffed to the brim with thick leather-bound books worn from sleepless nights and the turn of pages over and over and over, quick scribbles in the margins and the index, extra notes and newspaper clippings - anything he could get his hands on surrounding the ship's maiden voyage and his own personal concoctions. some were years in the making, others momentary ideas lacking the resources to either physically conceptualize or disprove any of his limitless theories around modern science, medicine, and invention.
he doesn't belong in the piltover academy uniform he's currently wearing, either. the cream vest and pristine tie knotted at his throat atop rich maroon fit him snugly, enough that it makes him stand that much straighter even with his limp and the knee brace below the finely woven dark pants. yet another item his parents had bestowed to him before a tearful goodbye, a sparkle in their eyes and the hope that their son would see his great potential finally recognized and reached somewhere outside of zaun's borders. somewhere it would actually be able to help others in more than just conjecture - those who made his own situation look like pure privilege in comparison, for example. some of the greatest minds of their time are aboard this ship somewhere, probably having tea in the reception room, serenaded by the quartet's whimsical notes...or later, in the smoking lounge with cigars and brandy in one hand while the other scrawled proposals on napkins or in expensive pocketbooks, hot-stamped with unmistakable initials as good as a signature and teeming with progress.
the dean of the academy is here. professor cecil b. heimerdinger, esteemed scientist, humanitarian, and inventor of his time. if he can just get even a few moments of his time...it could change everything for him. he's still working on refining which idea, what invention - he'll only have a few moments at best, but the uniform will buy him some time, not to mention access to the upper decks otherwise blocked off to the presumed riffraff any other zaunite might be automatically categorized as. his focus is much too important to be offended by as much - and being underestimated and overlooked based on where he comes from is as natural as the way he's learned to walk with his worsening condition. better not to linger on the things that can't be changed, pouring himself to the brink of exhaustion into everything else that will set him free of these constraints.
but it's early. he can't go pestering anyone too soon and risk being confined to the lower levels for the duration of his stay. which also means he can afford himself a few stolen moments marveling at the engineering of the ship in other places he is technically not supposed to be either. but the men drenched in sweat and splotches of soot are much too focused on the sweltering, glimmering mouths of the furnaces they feed, shoveling a ton of coal every two minutes to keep it sailing so smoothly beneath his feet. they do little more than quirk a brow, mutter that he shouldn't be down here, and let the next man he steps past follow suit.
remarkable, he whispers to himself, stopping for a moment to brush back some of the damp hair clinging to his forehead from the oppressive heat before pushing open the next door in his path.
it all happens so fast - the flurry of crisp white paper obscuring his view for a split second before someone is rambling at him with excuses. the sheets are a stark contrast to what is unmistakably piltover attire now marred with the hazards of their environment.
he's tall, whoever he is. nervous - enough that viktor senses immediately he must not belong down here either. the only difference is that he's not so good at showing it, when really it should be the reverse. there's no recognition for the man's strong features, just a quick once-over with a flash of of gold all the way to the floor before his eyes fix on one of the sketches that's landed face up.]
Both of the engines, 29 boilers and one Parsons' turbine, to be precise.
[his knees groan in protest, but he lowers himself very carefully onto his good one and reaches for some of the papers without any indication he plans to hand them back. after scanning over a few of them - a woman and daughter promenading on e-deck, a quick sketch of the propellers with a question on official speed recordings, and some sloppy notes centered around an outside project altogether, his eyes flick back up to pin the other intruder with discernment. and maybe if he looks closely he'll see the small glint of curiosity that's been piqued, too.
he should be able to tell viktor isn't buying his excuse for a moment by the wry note in his accent.]
You seem to know quite a lot for someone who is just passing through. Lost, as you said.
[only now does he offer the sheets over with an extension of his hand. but, the trade is clear:]
[ As much trouble as he believes he might be in, Jayce still prefers the sweltering heat and steam of the boiler rooms and engines to the stuffy, high-brow chatter up in the reception room. No doubt Mrs. Kiramman will be looking for him, impatiently making up kind excuses for his absence. He's sure to get an earful later.
Instead of worrying about her or the goings on of the upper decks, he dips to try and collect what of his sketches and designs he can before the stranger sees the contents, but he can tell in the skim of those amber eyes he's already lost. Not lost on Jayce, either, is the Piltover Academy attire the slender man wears, and he stares a little surprised at first, at the papers offered out to him. His eyes travel the line of his hand, his sleeve, to the slow bend of his knee, up his lapels, to his face, where a wisp of hair clings to his forehead. (He has two beauty marks. Real beauty marks, not painted on in want of attention, that much he can tell up close like this).
He clears his throat and drops down to a knee himself to pluck up a page this stranger hadn't reached, and when Jayce extends his hand to take the pages, he flushes. Thankfully, the dim light of the engine room spares him some embarrassment. ]
A Parsons turbine? [ His fingers twitch, almost as though he's itching to write the name of the thing down in the margins of his papers, but instead he closes his hand around the other edge of the sheets, not quite pulling them from the stranger's grasp yet. What he doesn't realize is it also exposes the ornate, leather band snaring his wrist, the glowing blue of the jewel inset on its back. ]
I've only heard it called a reaction turbine. I'll have to remember that. [ He clears his throat again, eyes flickering up to meet the man's face. The color of his eyes catches him by surprise again as the light overhead flickers, and he's sure he sees gold in those depths. ]
But, avoiding? I'm not avoiding anything. Just thought it would be a waste of my time on this voyage if I didn't take a look around. It's just... the news talks about how it's a mastery of scientific innovation and world-renown technology. Parsons turbines, and a ship this large operating on steam boilers, with as many decks? I think there are plenty of enhancements that could be made but--
[ He tucks the sheets into the leather bound journal, its pages ink stained and worn from many many years of adoring use. He rises back to his feet, only to offer that same hand down to the man. Help up, though he's not sure why his instinct tells him he might need it. He nearly looks bashful at the gesture. ]
You're right, by the way. About the avoiding. But something tells me you shouldn't be down here, either. I didn't think Piltover Academy allowed any students to work belowdecks. Have we met before?
[there's something freeing about the lack of judgment in this stranger's gaze. there's no immediate flicker of pity at the brief glimpse he might have seen from his limp, no suspicion that somehow he doesn't belong in the uniform that still doesn't feel like its his. even his line of questioning is filled with gentle curiosity rather than accusations, and in admitting his own displacement there is a feeling viktor feels warm in his chest that can only be described as something almost kindred. this stranger might be an authentic student of piltover's academy and an actual citizen within its borders, a first class passenger on this ship - but down here? they're both outsiders drinking in the wondrous work that surrounds them on this fine vessel.
and when the other man isn't stealing glances, viktor is taking in more than just the intricate detail of steel and screws. from the fresh cut of his hair to the small gap between his front teeth and the unmistakable glimpse of callouses that out him as something other than rich and idle...he can admit the obvious: the stranger has piqued his interest. and alright, aesthetically he's pleasing to the eye, not that it would require a hypothesis to prove that. he certainly fills in his uniform much sturdier than viktor, and it crosses his mind that like his hands, maybe his arms were harder won through difficult work than any shiny emblem or house name could gloss over.
he finds himself wondering - what does he study within the walls of the academy? how did he earn a spot on the titanic? does he know the professor personally? his imagination is wild with possibility. but one word sticks out the most from his slightly nervous, rushed responses and eagerness to praise.]
Enhancements? You're saying you believe this "Wonder Ship" built by some of the greatest inventors of our time requires improvements?
[viktor tilts his head in consideration, letting a loud beat of silence brew between them as if he might disagree. but eventually the corner of his mouth tugs into a small smirk, and he reaches for the extended hand just as he locks with rich gold that nearly mirrors his own.
(no pity, no insult in the motion. a rare offer of genuine help without assumption.)]
I agree with you.
[he lets that drop as heavy as all 31 tons in the titanic's anchors, a hint of playfulness and teasing in the reveal. pushing up to his feet with the added support, his palm brushes against unmistakable callouses that prove his absent theory. is it from handling lab equipment? or is he down here because this kind of honest work hits close to home? viktor's hand lingers for just a moment, an inexplicable addition to that warmth in his chest blooming before he lets it drop back to his side.]
Don't worry. We haven't met before in Piltover. I'll even keep this between us, as long you are willing to share some of these ideas of yours - in exchange for the same.
[his lips pull a little further, amusement clear as he tips his chin up at his new mystery acquaintance to gauge his reaction.]
[ As in all things, Jayce experiences a brief moment of doubt the very second the stranger questions his notion toward enhancements, improvements. His cheeks burn pink at their high points and he clears his throat. He doesn't know this man, doesn't recognize him, but the uniform suggests he's from the Academy - had he just insulted someone who might have some affiliation with the design?
Surely not.
The silence weighs heavy and as he helps the man up, he blinks wide eyed and nearly forgets to release the other man's hand. It fits so perfectly against his own. Up close like this, it's easy to see the gold of his eyes reflected in the dim light of the cabin, to see something more than judgement behind them. Jayce has become used to the curious stares and disapproving looks from those at the Academy. To some, he's an utter mad man, working with technology that wasn't meant to be tampered with. To others, he's a foolhardy boy let off his lower class leash too soon.
Standing so close, he can feel the warmth between them, particularly when he watches the man's mouth pull into a knowing smirk. It makes electricity tingle its way up his spine as his hand drops back to his side, remiss to have released the other. He takes a half step toward him, bewildered, his own fair eyes wide and alight with interest and relief. ]
Wait, you do?
[ He's not even sure the very engineers of the ship would agree with him, but to find someone who falls into stride with him already? It's exhilarating. He certainly feels more at home here in the belly of the ship, but that's made even more comfortable by this pretty stranger's presence. He has to get his name. ]
Of course I'm willing. But only if you share some of your ideas, too. You see, if you agree that there are modifications that can be made to a ship like this, then you've spent some time thinking about this, too. [ A grin, easy and bright, though there's still the sheepish burn of pink high in his cheeks. He rubs at the back of his neck, a little awkward, a little uncertain how to navigate this without seeming completely and utterly over-invested. Because that's what he is, where science and technology is concerned.
Little else lights a fire in him like this does.
And so he offers his hand out to him again in greeting, but selfishly wanting a taste of that contact again, to feel the zing of electricity. The knowledge that he might very well have met an equal, finally. Someone he can level and stand toe-to-toe with. ]
Jayce Talis. What do I have to wager to get your name?
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πππππ ππππ;
The beautiful behemoth made up of iron and steel, forged by the laborers much like his father, rumbles underfoot. Jayce watched for months and months as the carrier was built tedious bolt after tedious bolt, all the while his patron constantly reminded him to keep his eyes on the Medarda Clan's interests, and not those of the Capitol. The look on Lady Kiramman's face when Ambessa Medarda herself asked for an audience over high noon tea and expressed her direct interest in Jayce himself joining her family aboard the world's newest and grandest venture yet still burns bright in the back of his mind.
He should be with Madame Medarda now, tucked carefully at Mel's side to receive audience in the grand hall, but he's managed to slip away in the cover of the commotion. With the ship at sea, rumbling its way toward Cherbourg, each deck and corridor buzz with people of all classes. Even he feels somewhat out of place in his Piltover regalia, not quite made of the same stuff as the Medardas, and not quite the same as those in the underbelly of the ship. His mother had waved him on proudly from the shore, tears in her eyes, and he canβt help but wonder if thatβs exactly where he should be: on solid ground with her. But she had always known he would be made for bigger, better things.
He's not so sure.
The smell of salt and sea burns his nose as he steps out of the first class lounge and out onto the main deck, the sun bright and warming his skin. The waves lap hungrily at the belly of the beast and he spends a long time staring out over the rail, a leather-bound journal tucked under his arm, as though protecting it from falling into the spinning propellers below. He half expects for Lady Kiramman herself to slip out and tug him by the elbow, sternly beckoning him back inside to meet those important to the Council, to speak on the innovations and ideas he has for building bigger, better things than the Titanic itself.
How he could ever stand up to this? He doesn't know. Heβs not sure he wants to.
Instead of waiting for the inevitable trap, he wanders the decks, weaves his way into second class, then third, covertly slipping through doors left ajar by staff and crew, letting conduit and piping and circuitry guide him through the ship like each piece of brass and iron pointed straight into the heart of the ship itself.
Jayce knows that the moment he steps into the engine room, he's come too far. The turbine groans, the engines hiss as the pressure gauge rises and falls, rhythmically pushing the ship through the unruly waves, but he's completely enamored by every turnbuckle, every winch, every piston. So caught up is he that he barely registers someone else might be in the room with him, and that he, Jayce Talis, esteemed invited company of the Medarda and Kiramman Clan, should not at all be in the engine room.
The groan of the door, the sound of shuffled feet on the floor sends him reeling. He turns around and drops the bound journal on the ground, the covers fluttering open, revealing a smattering of sketches and scribbled notes- some mechanical, some of the tides, some of the patrons on the ship. ]
Sorry, I... well, I think I'm lost.
[ He's a bad liar, he doesn't sound at all like he even believes himself, and he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck, smearing grease at his nape. ]
Just, ah, these are the engines, right? Triple expansion, steam powered? Single turbine, coal fueled? [ His white suit bears smudges of grease and oil, coal soot dusting his sleeves. He's not only been to the engine room, but all over the belly of the ship unsupervised. Jayce offers a weak, half-encouraging smile before scrambling for his journal and the pages askew on the filthy floor. ]
Right. I'm... definitely lost.
no subject
not here here in the engine room - though that's true enough as well, but...here. here aboard the grandest ship the world had ever seen with a third class ticket in his pocket that took month's worth of his parents' wages to secure, heavy with expectations and the whisper of things he'd never stopped dreaming of despite the arbitrary limitations placed on his shoulders. here with a suitcase stuffed to the brim with thick leather-bound books worn from sleepless nights and the turn of pages over and over and over, quick scribbles in the margins and the index, extra notes and newspaper clippings - anything he could get his hands on surrounding the ship's maiden voyage and his own personal concoctions. some were years in the making, others momentary ideas lacking the resources to either physically conceptualize or disprove any of his limitless theories around modern science, medicine, and invention.
he doesn't belong in the piltover academy uniform he's currently wearing, either. the cream vest and pristine tie knotted at his throat atop rich maroon fit him snugly, enough that it makes him stand that much straighter even with his limp and the knee brace below the finely woven dark pants. yet another item his parents had bestowed to him before a tearful goodbye, a sparkle in their eyes and the hope that their son would see his great potential finally recognized and reached somewhere outside of zaun's borders. somewhere it would actually be able to help others in more than just conjecture - those who made his own situation look like pure privilege in comparison, for example. some of the greatest minds of their time are aboard this ship somewhere, probably having tea in the reception room, serenaded by the quartet's whimsical notes...or later, in the smoking lounge with cigars and brandy in one hand while the other scrawled proposals on napkins or in expensive pocketbooks, hot-stamped with unmistakable initials as good as a signature and teeming with progress.
the dean of the academy is here. professor cecil b. heimerdinger, esteemed scientist, humanitarian, and inventor of his time. if he can just get even a few moments of his time...it could change everything for him. he's still working on refining which idea, what invention - he'll only have a few moments at best, but the uniform will buy him some time, not to mention access to the upper decks otherwise blocked off to the presumed riffraff any other zaunite might be automatically categorized as. his focus is much too important to be offended by as much - and being underestimated and overlooked based on where he comes from is as natural as the way he's learned to walk with his worsening condition. better not to linger on the things that can't be changed, pouring himself to the brink of exhaustion into everything else that will set him free of these constraints.
but it's early. he can't go pestering anyone too soon and risk being confined to the lower levels for the duration of his stay. which also means he can afford himself a few stolen moments marveling at the engineering of the ship in other places he is technically not supposed to be either. but the men drenched in sweat and splotches of soot are much too focused on the sweltering, glimmering mouths of the furnaces they feed, shoveling a ton of coal every two minutes to keep it sailing so smoothly beneath his feet. they do little more than quirk a brow, mutter that he shouldn't be down here, and let the next man he steps past follow suit.
remarkable, he whispers to himself, stopping for a moment to brush back some of the damp hair clinging to his forehead from the oppressive heat before pushing open the next door in his path.
it all happens so fast - the flurry of crisp white paper obscuring his view for a split second before someone is rambling at him with excuses. the sheets are a stark contrast to what is unmistakably piltover attire now marred with the hazards of their environment.
he's tall, whoever he is. nervous - enough that viktor senses immediately he must not belong down here either. the only difference is that he's not so good at showing it, when really it should be the reverse. there's no recognition for the man's strong features, just a quick once-over with a flash of of gold all the way to the floor before his eyes fix on one of the sketches that's landed face up.]
Both of the engines, 29 boilers and one Parsons' turbine, to be precise.
[his knees groan in protest, but he lowers himself very carefully onto his good one and reaches for some of the papers without any indication he plans to hand them back. after scanning over a few of them - a woman and daughter promenading on e-deck, a quick sketch of the propellers with a question on official speed recordings, and some sloppy notes centered around an outside project altogether, his eyes flick back up to pin the other intruder with discernment. and maybe if he looks closely he'll see the small glint of curiosity that's been piqued, too.
he should be able to tell viktor isn't buying his excuse for a moment by the wry note in his accent.]
You seem to know quite a lot for someone who is just passing through. Lost, as you said.
[only now does he offer the sheets over with an extension of his hand. but, the trade is clear:]
What is it you're really down here avoiding?
no subject
Instead of worrying about her or the goings on of the upper decks, he dips to try and collect what of his sketches and designs he can before the stranger sees the contents, but he can tell in the skim of those amber eyes he's already lost. Not lost on Jayce, either, is the Piltover Academy attire the slender man wears, and he stares a little surprised at first, at the papers offered out to him. His eyes travel the line of his hand, his sleeve, to the slow bend of his knee, up his lapels, to his face, where a wisp of hair clings to his forehead. (He has two beauty marks. Real beauty marks, not painted on in want of attention, that much he can tell up close like this).
He clears his throat and drops down to a knee himself to pluck up a page this stranger hadn't reached, and when Jayce extends his hand to take the pages, he flushes. Thankfully, the dim light of the engine room spares him some embarrassment. ]
A Parsons turbine? [ His fingers twitch, almost as though he's itching to write the name of the thing down in the margins of his papers, but instead he closes his hand around the other edge of the sheets, not quite pulling them from the stranger's grasp yet. What he doesn't realize is it also exposes the ornate, leather band snaring his wrist, the glowing blue of the jewel inset on its back. ]
I've only heard it called a reaction turbine. I'll have to remember that. [ He clears his throat again, eyes flickering up to meet the man's face. The color of his eyes catches him by surprise again as the light overhead flickers, and he's sure he sees gold in those depths. ]
But, avoiding? I'm not avoiding anything. Just thought it would be a waste of my time on this voyage if I didn't take a look around. It's just... the news talks about how it's a mastery of scientific innovation and world-renown technology. Parsons turbines, and a ship this large operating on steam boilers, with as many decks? I think there are plenty of enhancements that could be made but--
[ He tucks the sheets into the leather bound journal, its pages ink stained and worn from many many years of adoring use. He rises back to his feet, only to offer that same hand down to the man. Help up, though he's not sure why his instinct tells him he might need it. He nearly looks bashful at the gesture. ]
You're right, by the way. About the avoiding. But something tells me you shouldn't be down here, either. I didn't think Piltover Academy allowed any students to work belowdecks. Have we met before?
no subject
and when the other man isn't stealing glances, viktor is taking in more than just the intricate detail of steel and screws. from the fresh cut of his hair to the small gap between his front teeth and the unmistakable glimpse of callouses that out him as something other than rich and idle...he can admit the obvious: the stranger has piqued his interest. and alright, aesthetically he's pleasing to the eye, not that it would require a hypothesis to prove that. he certainly fills in his uniform much sturdier than viktor, and it crosses his mind that like his hands, maybe his arms were harder won through difficult work than any shiny emblem or house name could gloss over.
he finds himself wondering - what does he study within the walls of the academy? how did he earn a spot on the titanic? does he know the professor personally? his imagination is wild with possibility. but one word sticks out the most from his slightly nervous, rushed responses and eagerness to praise.]
Enhancements? You're saying you believe this "Wonder Ship" built by some of the greatest inventors of our time requires improvements?
[viktor tilts his head in consideration, letting a loud beat of silence brew between them as if he might disagree. but eventually the corner of his mouth tugs into a small smirk, and he reaches for the extended hand just as he locks with rich gold that nearly mirrors his own.
(no pity, no insult in the motion. a rare offer of genuine help without assumption.)]
I agree with you.
[he lets that drop as heavy as all 31 tons in the titanic's anchors, a hint of playfulness and teasing in the reveal. pushing up to his feet with the added support, his palm brushes against unmistakable callouses that prove his absent theory. is it from handling lab equipment? or is he down here because this kind of honest work hits close to home? viktor's hand lingers for just a moment, an inexplicable addition to that warmth in his chest blooming before he lets it drop back to his side.]
Don't worry. We haven't met before in Piltover. I'll even keep this between us, as long you are willing to share some of these ideas of yours - in exchange for the same.
[his lips pull a little further, amusement clear as he tips his chin up at his new mystery acquaintance to gauge his reaction.]
And your name.
no subject
[ As in all things, Jayce experiences a brief moment of doubt the very second the stranger questions his notion toward enhancements, improvements. His cheeks burn pink at their high points and he clears his throat. He doesn't know this man, doesn't recognize him, but the uniform suggests he's from the Academy - had he just insulted someone who might have some affiliation with the design?
Surely not.
The silence weighs heavy and as he helps the man up, he blinks wide eyed and nearly forgets to release the other man's hand. It fits so perfectly against his own. Up close like this, it's easy to see the gold of his eyes reflected in the dim light of the cabin, to see something more than judgement behind them. Jayce has become used to the curious stares and disapproving looks from those at the Academy. To some, he's an utter mad man, working with technology that wasn't meant to be tampered with. To others, he's a foolhardy boy let off his lower class leash too soon.
Standing so close, he can feel the warmth between them, particularly when he watches the man's mouth pull into a knowing smirk. It makes electricity tingle its way up his spine as his hand drops back to his side, remiss to have released the other. He takes a half step toward him, bewildered, his own fair eyes wide and alight with interest and relief. ]
Wait, you do?
[ He's not even sure the very engineers of the ship would agree with him, but to find someone who falls into stride with him already? It's exhilarating. He certainly feels more at home here in the belly of the ship, but that's made even more comfortable by this pretty stranger's presence. He has to get his name. ]
Of course I'm willing. But only if you share some of your ideas, too. You see, if you agree that there are modifications that can be made to a ship like this, then you've spent some time thinking about this, too. [ A grin, easy and bright, though there's still the sheepish burn of pink high in his cheeks. He rubs at the back of his neck, a little awkward, a little uncertain how to navigate this without seeming completely and utterly over-invested. Because that's what he is, where science and technology is concerned.
Little else lights a fire in him like this does.
And so he offers his hand out to him again in greeting, but selfishly wanting a taste of that contact again, to feel the zing of electricity. The knowledge that he might very well have met an equal, finally. Someone he can level and stand toe-to-toe with. ]
Jayce Talis. What do I have to wager to get your name?