Cohort mingle

[art_of_war]

WHO: Delta, Winter, Phalanx, Connor, Billy, Thrawn
WHERE: The Bloodsport
WHAT: Everyone is stuck in the ship together, so be polite I guess?
WHEN: Event
WARNINGS: None anticipated

Since we're all stuck, a mingle seemed like a good idea.

Comments

[pileofspirits]

They lean and turn a little to get a better look at the man's face, watching (and theoretically thinking) for several seconds... before ultimately deciding to continue their reach for that button anyway. Between whatever they understood of all that and what went right over their addled little head, the call of the controls is too much to resist.

"Multiple, multiple personalities."

[art_of_war]

As he warned, Thrawn did have to take hold of Phalanx's wrist and pull it back from the button. And as he also warned his skin was much colder than a human's 98.6 degrees. Not cold enough to burn as dry ice would but cold enough to make the joint ache from prolonged contact.

"And to whom am I speaking now?"

[pileofspirits]

Phalanx's fingers flex when their wrist is caught, but they don't seem to even notice the sharp shift in temperature. They're also lacking in warmth, despite their human appearance, hardly warmer than the cool air circulating through the ship. It's not quite the lifeless chill of a corpse, but pretty close, and Thrawn's icy skin quickly smothers the little bit of warmth that had been there.

"You're speaking to us. All of us," they happily answer.

[art_of_war]

Interesting. Phalanx looked human but physical contact disproved that.

"I understand that. But surely there is a certain personality that has control of the mouth."

If not then trying to hold a conversation would become terribly confusing.

[pileofspirits]

About that...

It's as if bringing up that small and obvious bit of logic is enough to upset whatever balance they might have going on in there. Confusion (and possibly discomfort) flash across their face, and their eyes shift from appearing flat-black to a bright, human blue.

Then, blue changes to a dull green sort of color. Warm brown takes its place after that, and the texture of their hair begins to crimp up into little waves.

"No. Or yes. We all... I mean. A mouth and a certain personality and control of a mouth..."

[art_of_war]

Thrawn said nothing through those amniotic sea changes. If he was bothered at all by them he did not show it.

"That is just restating what I have said. Allow me to clarify; while you are clearly not human, you do look human, thus you have one mouth. Does each personality have a particular body part or do they all share the mouth?"

While in the galaxy he came from it was not unheard of for many minds to occupy one body it was also rare. Rare enough Thrawn had never seen it before. He was treating Phalanx like something in a Petri dish.

[pileofspirits]

They compulsively fidget with the edge of their hood, while the sea of spirits inside of them grapple with the task of understanding the question and then fielding entirely too many answers that result from it. Their words get more aimless and just flow out like running water as exactly what Thrawn had hypothesized begins to happen. Too many fragments elbow for space at one set of controls.

"We're human all human. Always all of... we're human. And we share. Talk and... clarify and clearly human. One mouth but we all... had... we share our mouths..."

[art_of_war]

Thrawn is impassive as he sees Phalanx fidget with his hood and the answer becomes more and more disjointed.

"it is not my intention to cause you distress. A simple yes or no will suffice. "

[pileofspirits]

With clear struggle, Phalanx manages to wrestle their fidgeting and rambling still. Still looking uncomfortable, they try their best to follow instruction with a simple answer.

"Yes." And only a beat after that, "No."

They tried their best.

[art_of_war]

Thrawn let out a small frustrated sigh quietly from his nose. His expression never wavered though. He had no patience for vague things and he dismissed Phalanx as vague. He turned back toward the ship's flight stick.

"Please do not touch any more buttons or I will have to remove you from the bridge."

[pileofspirits]

Phalanx may be impossibly vague, but there is still some sort of drive in there that desires to be listened to. Thrawn dismisses them, but they lean forward--not enough to actually move to where they are in his line of sight again, but the sentiment is there.

"But we... we're supposed to. We know all these..." They trail off, gesturing at the control panel.

[art_of_war]

You are going to have to try harder than that, Phalanx. Thrawn let out a slightly less quiet sigh of frustration.

"You are still not making it a great deal of sense."