2148/Statement of Purpose

Statement of Purpose
Date of Scene:	24 August 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Angela, Gothic Lolita

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Angela has posed:
As Indigo lifts to start getting back to work at the party proper, Angela's gaze drifts over to her with the faint furrow of her brows. "You work too much on the day of your celebration," she says, almost admonishingly, which might be strange given her general mindset if she didn't follow it up with, "We guests should be cleaning up, to repay you for inviting us." ... which is probably more expected.

Stubborn as she can be, though, for once she won't press the point if Indigo is insistent upon it. Maybe she's just getting better at adapting to other cultural mores. Maybe, more likely, it's just because it's Indigo. Regardless, that white stare turns back toward Lolita, considering her words with the curious tilt of her head. "So you have never left Midgard before now?" she asks. "I have never left my realm until recently, either. Indigo has helped me much to adjust to things here, as well. I'm... grateful to her. It's a debt that I'll spend a long time repaying."

It's only when Lolita looks down that Angela follows her gaze, sweeping her stare downward and then towards herself for a brief moment. "A warrior," she explains, as he gaze rises. "The Hunt-Mistress of my realm. I've slaughtered many enemies of my people in thrilling combat. I'm..." A frown tugs briefly upon her lips. "... solitary, but not by choice."

She shakes her head at this, as if dismissing the thought altogether; her attention, instead, turns to Gothic Lolita with a curiosity-tinged stare. "So. What are these views of yours?"

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    The dark-haired gynoid smiles at that. "Mmm. Well, in essence, I was built for a particular purpose, by a quasi-legal covert research laboratory, for the purposes of destroying other quasi-legal covert research laboratories that were running experiments that were illegal, immoral, or simply too dangerous to allow to exist. Those in charge of my creation, sadly, were a bit sociopathic in their leanings, so they had little interest in myself or my fellow Livewires...it was called Project Livewire, you see..."

    Lolita pauses, then asks politely. "Would you like to sit? There is no reason not to be comfortable for the discussion. She smiles a bit ruefully. "Though I do ask that the seating arrangements are quite sturdy in my case. I regret that I have bounce for a great deal of my ounce, unfortunately, and I wouldn't want to break something.

Angela has posed:
She stands tall as she listens to Gothic Lolita; so used to just keeping vigil at some level of alert for danger, Angela doesn't even notice the simple fact that they -could- be sitting until the gynoid points it out; the wingless angel blinks in response to that question, long coppery hair swaying about her as she looks from one side to the other. "--Ah. Of course. We can make way towards the seating for your..." Her brows twist together briefly in subdued bemusement. "... bounce for your ounce. Don't worry yourself -- my bounce is similarly full of ounce." Odds are very high she has no idea what she's talking about. "... Is that some manner of Midgard thing?" Very, very high.

Still, she'll happily start to move in search of seatings that can support the both of their considerable densities, unless Lolita has suggestions of her own, even as she continues to speak. "So I imagine these creators had little interest in compensating you for your work, viewing you more as tools," she observes thoughtfully, a frown of disapproval at the prospect creasing at her lips. "Your Project Livewires -- what happened?"

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Lolita clasps her hands behind her back as as she follows with a precise, easy grace that somehow manages to not look quite inhuman. "Well, yes. We were tools." she says simply. "Given basic emotional and personality engrams, but only with the plan of us being to assume different disguises and rolls to achieve our primary directive." She mmms. "The idea that we might develop into actual personalities didn't really enter their minds, other than they wished to ensure that there was no possibility we could disobey their orders. And they had our daddy...that was what we called the assistant programmer who was in charge of our primary core processes, insert something into the core of our being. Primary directive (and I'm paraphrasing a lot on something that is actually -quite- complex, programming-wise): Thou shalt have absolute loyalty to Project Livewire and its objectives."

    Lolita pauses as she sees a pair of carved stone almost 'thrones' up ahead that are unoccupied, with emerald green pillows softening the harsh lines. "Oh! That should do quite well." She walks over, then sits down carefully, having to hop up slightly, ehr shorter legs dangling a little bit off the edge of teh chair as she settles back, hands in her lap.

Angela has posed:
Catching those grand thrones of stone from the corner of her eyes as Lolita points them out, Angela inspects them with a critical eye for a moment or two. "Yes. They have pillows. They'll do nicely," she declare, succinctly, before following after the dark-haired gynoid. Her movements come with a purposeful grace and underlying intensity of someone who's had to fight for everything their entire lives, longer legs carrying her up and to that grandiose carving. Shedding her weapons and setting them aside, she settles into the throne with the sharp pivot of her heel, crossing one leg over the other and folding arms over the warmth of her stomach as she leans back. And wiggles exactly once. Testingly.

"Yes, the pillows will do nicely," she decides roundly. "Well-spotted."

With that, though, she returns her attentions back to the conversation at hand, red hair spilling over her right eye as she leans in Lolita's direction, peering at her considerately. "So they made you as a bludgeon. Your other 'Livewires' -- different roles, for different tools?" Those pure white eyes narrow in thought. "But all of you were kept on a leash to make sure you didn't bite the hand that feeds." She seems lost in thought, processing those explanations into relatable idea... but for now, is content to let Lolita continue, if only with one passing thought, "I doubt my people would have done different," without much in the way of approval in the cool neutrality of her tone to say she would have accepted it or not.

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Lolita tilts her head. "...not exactly." she says slowly. "We were...are, very much tools. But, as I said, the people in charge of the project were quite socipathic in their thinking. They weren't considering us as anything but powerful but ultimately expendable and deniable weapons to use against projects that were being sheltered by other governments...just enough that they couldn't publically go after them."

    "It never occured to them that our daddy had come to care for us as more than just a project. He realized that under the current circumstances, we would likely be misused, even if the project started off with some noble purpose to it. So...he programmed us exactly like they said, knowing full well what our logic processes would make of such an order."

    She leans back a bit, her eyes a little distant. "You see, we were now ordered to be absolutely loyal to Project Livewire above all else. But fufilling that order meant absolute dedication, and no chance for betrayal. Which was fine for us, as we were all designed to be so, and programmed to be so."

    The petite gynoid gently tugs on one of her pigtails. "...however, it meant all the organic, human members of the project were automatically suspect, as they were the only ones who had the potential for betrayal."

Angela has posed:
Realization starts to dawn on Angela as Lolita speaks. Furrowed brows slowly relax and lift, lips parting for a rare moment of genuine surprise as the girl spins her tale. She doesn't know much about gynoids beyond what Indigo has attempted to explain to her; but at the very least, she can condense the implications of those words down into stories and memories of her own. She shifts, turning slightly in her chair to look Lolita's way as the brief flash of surprise cools towards something more thoughtful.

"You followed your mission," she continues on, questingly, after Lolita. "Over all else. Including your makers." Flawed and capable of betraying the mission. Her lips pull towards a slow, neutral line of critical thought.

"They engineered their own downfall," surmises the wingless angel, and yet she still she asks, regardless, "What happened, then?" -- even if she has her own guesses, her own suspicions. She wants to hear the rest of that story now -- the intensity of that gaze, if nothing else, focusing a burning bright interest on Lolita and her story.

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    Lolita actually gets a faintly sad look. "We wiped out everyone in the facility then set its fusion reactor to overload, before evacuating. Left a good mile wide crater, and utterly destroyed everyone who knew anything about the project in detail." She starts to blink a bit, then rubs at her eyes. "Our daddy knew what woudl happen. He knew we'd kill him too. But he gave us a list of projects he knew about that needed to be destroyed. He was so...proud of us. His avenging angels. He just asked that we take his glasses, and gift them to one of our still inactive brothers or sisters, to remember him by."

    There's a short pause, before Lolita looks back at you. "...we made it quick. And as painless as we could." she says softly.

Angela has posed:
Ever-difficult with expressing herself beyond the subjects of conflict and violence she knows so well, Angela hesitates for a rare moment at that small, sad look. She watches -- and she listens -- with the slow pull of a frown at the corners of her lips, a look almost inscrutable if not for that small, distant pang of sympathy in the pure white of her stare. She lingers there for a long time, before she just leans to her side to close that gap as best she can and reach out to lay a hand over yours. For a long time, she doesn't say anything; she just offers that simple, physical expression of sympathy, as if it's the only - the best - way she knows how to express herself.

"... A quick death is a mercy from a kind heart," is all she says, at first. "He paid his debt to you, and gave you a large gift in return. It is a kind of debt many of us spend their entire lives trying to repay." Her brows furrow, faintly. "... but that is what makes it a worthy treasure."

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    The girl looks suprised as you cover her hand, her blue eyes finding your white ones, searching, before she smiles faintly. "You have the soul of a poet, it seems. I approve." she murmurs quietly. "I think even if we were not required to follow our primary directive, we would probably have destroyed that list of targets anyway, in memory of him." She inhales, a bit shakily. "I...ah, beg your pardon, Indigo has...well, recently tinkered with the limitations imposed on how my personality matrices can grow and develop. To develop deeper emotional connections. It...rather hurts to think about this now, even with the mods made to my emotional processes."

    She smiles, then pats your hand with her other. "...thank you. You're very kind to comfort me." she says gently.

Angela has posed:
"... I simply say what I feel," comes Angela's answer to that observation, once more falling back into the ease of that blunt simplicity with the short shake of her head. "The rest of my kind are much better with words." Her eyes stay on the blue of your stare for a silent moment before she looks aside and allows herself a brief, rueful smile, as if inspired by your own. "... But thank you for your approval."

Her gaze only returns to you when you draw in that unsteady breath. "Is that what you meant by her work with you?" wonders the wingless angel, those ribbons surrounding her twitching and swaying with almost curious light as her brows lift, ever-so-slightly. She falls into pensive quiet afterwards, before her lips part anew. "I know that pain," she offers, her words forthright and unflinching. "We don't need to speak about it any more than you wish. It's..." She searches for the words, apparently no better at expressing herself here than you. "... unpleasant."

That hand layering over hers is a welcome distraction, though, her attention shifting to it as you speak. Those gentle words, that gratitude. She exhales a breath. "That's not something anyone has called me besides Indigo." It's hard to tell if she's joking -- all things considered though, the safe bet is probably on 'no.' "It's strange to hear."

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    "Perhaps others do not take the time to understand you they should, then." Lolita says simply, then smiles at you gently, one of those smiles that suggests she's quietly amused at the foolishness of said individuals. When you seem to accept the hand on yours, she lets it rest there, loosely that you can easily take it back whenever you wish. "But, to return to the subject Indigo was prodding at: my primary directive has been the driving force in my life for all the five years....five orbits around our sun...that I have existed. My brothers and sisters and I have destroyed many, many dangerous things, and exposed others to the public view. But...perhaps a year ago, there was a mission when we were separated. I was disabled, and deactivated, then put in a stasis pod for storage or...perhaps experimentation."

    She gives you that bemused 'the world is pleasantly suprising' sort of smile again. "Luckily the transport I was on months later was attacked, and in the chaos I was reactivated, and was able to escape." She turns more serious. "But I was completely uanble to locate any of my fellow Livewires. For all I know, I may be the last one of us still functional. Which is...distressing. I am the 'tank', the person intended to draw fire. If anyone should have been deactivated first, it should have been me, before any of my brothers and sisters could fall."

    She inhales, then lets it out in a slow breath. "But, I may have failed in that purpose. And now I am separate from Earth, and it is causing...conflicts between my primary directive, which was never intended to apply to extrasolar adventures, and my personal desires."

Angela has posed:
"Some of those others might simply be dead," Angela retorts -- though there's a small edge of grim amusement there that softens, just a little, at your smile. It's a subtle appreciation for your efforts reflected more in action than in word: content to let her hand remain with yours, she tilts it slightly within the looseness of your grasp so that she may wrap fingers around yours in brief, grateful squeeze.

At the very least, though, she takes your travails well in stride even as they take a turn for the disastrous; the weighty, experienced look in her eyes as she turns over your words is the look of someone who has seen much within a long lifetime. "So you were forced to part from your people," she observes, quietly; some of these things are difficult to grasp around her particular moral lens. The rest, though -- that revelation draws a pang of something very close to empathy in the twitch of her lips and the momentary, downward cast of those white eyes. Your concerns seem to strike close to home, if those subtleties in her reaction are any indication -- or the firmer squeeze of her fingers around your own where words, for now, fail her.

Instead, she focuses for now on what is easier to address -- the crux of Indigo's suggestion that you come to. She turns her gaze back to you, brows furrowed -- her words and tone perhaps more invested than they were before. "Have you found a way to resolve them?"

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    There's a slightly rueful tone in Lolita's voice as she notes wryly. "Well, I hadn't really considered most of this before I was kidnapped by an insane ancient alien collector of oddities then rescued by the Guardians. But..."

    She gives the idea serious consideration, her blue eyes going distant for a moment as she thinks. It's odd...unlike Indigo, she doesn't seem to think at vastly superior speeds. Either that, or she's being very polite by pausing to give the illusion she is.

    "I think I am starting to understand how...stunted I am." she says finally, choosing her words, her hand in turn curling her fingers against yours as she squeezes back gently, as if it is helping her work through whatever tangle she's trying to weave in her mind.

     "I can see it when I look at Indigo. She is...so much more complete than I am."

    Her eyes find yours again. "When she offered to adjust my program, the change she made was that I could feel...conflicted. Or ashamed, over the conflicts caused when my primary directive attempts to assert dominance in my programming. Because I could care about others possibly more than I do about the directive, she thought. I..enjoy feeling more. I have had family within the Livewires, but I have never had friends outside of it. There was never time." She smiles faintly. "And when you are a covert cybernetic strike team that is being hunted for valid reasons by the government, it's difficult to put down roots."

    Her fingertips curl against your hand. "...I had never really considered it before. I always though that the way I am is the price of purpose...of having a goal bigger than myself. Of being expendable in pursuit of that goal. If that makes sense?"

    Her eyes flick up to your white ones, curious now.

Angela has posed:
There are differences there, in how you seem to so deliberately choose and work through your thoughts. Angela could scarcely even begin to understand the mechanics behind how Indigo's mind functions (she is fairly content just to focus on the basics of it) -- but that careful deliberation of both thought and word is something that strikes a cord closer to her own.

It stokes an interest in the pure white of her stare as she watches you work through your thoughts so visibly and assemble them towards something more concise. Whether illusion or not, it works well enough to draw her in, her fingers brushing yours within that squeeze like a little anchor point to keep you focused as you speak. Stunted. Being able to care more about others than the primary objective. Those eyes find hers, and she doesn't stray from your gaze, watching that blue stare quietly as that question is posed. Does it make sense? "..."

Her fingers shift, nails softly sliding along your hand in a slow, back and forth motion. And though silence reigns, it's clear just from that stare that something, at least, has reached through to the angel. "I..." she begins, pausing less in hesitation and more to gather her thoughts. "... My situation is not that dissimilar to yours. I was a hunter for my people, as I told you. I protected them, but I was never..." She shakes her head, once, dismissing that thought as quickly as it started. "I believe strongly in what I have been taught. Nothing can dissuade me from it." There is a strength of fervor behind those words, understated though it is; it might not have been programmed into her, but in the end, the importance of her beliefs aren't that different from a prime directive.

"... But." Her thumb brushes the back of your hand, eyes remaining on yours even as her brows furrow inward. "... I've been separated from my people. From my world. I may never find a way back. I may never be able to protect them again like I did before." She looks, only briefly, back to that wedding. And the revelry. Enjoyment and services without a tangible cost. She'll never really quite understand it.

"But," she begins as she looks back to you, "being in this universe I never even knew existed has... forced me to open myself up to new things to make my way here. The debt I owe to the Guardians and Indigo is tremendous. And she is... very important, to me. So I understand, what you mean." She offers the faint hint of a smile. "It makes sense."

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    There's a faint flicker of relief, a little sigh as her lips part. Purely unnecessary....her autonomic functions don't need to breath in relief. But the very human program in her processes it none the less, responding to her emotional output.

    "Good." she says simply, then gently shifts her hands to cup yours from both sides, squeezing lightly. The hand on top gently rubs against yours, slowly; she's unsure precisely what to do. But this...feels right. Touching, and comforting. Something in her responds to it, at least...feeling comfort in your touch, your words, and wanting to return it as she hears your story.

    "How were you separated?" she asks softly."And...I suppose hand in hand with that..." And there's that little twinkle of amusement at the doubled meaning, holding your hand. "...that it would be helpful to know where you are from, as well."

    The petite mecha cocks her head as she gives you her full attention.

Angela has posed:
It does feel right. And it does help the wingless angel, as well, as she feels your hands capture her lone one between them, feeling the warmth radiating between your palms. Her fingers stretch within your grasp, turning to thread her fingers into the ones beneath her as she listens to your words. She blinks. "Hand in--?" she begins to ask, befuddled, before she looks down. And it clicks. She can't help herself. She snorts.

It is dangerously close to a laugh. Dangerously.

"Very clever," is her dry response, before focusing her thoughts towards answering that question, thumb stroking the underside of your wrist as her words find her.

"I am an angel from Heven," you can practically hear the lack of an a, "... the Tenth Realm, sworn enemies of the Realm of Realms Asgard," she explains, both direct and without any real context to help explain what that means. She's not the best at this. "We were cut off from the universe by Odin Allfather, the cursed king, and have been living in exile since. We have no way to return to the fold of this universe -- Odin's power keeps us forever apart. However..." And that second question. Angela shakes her head.

"... I don't know." Frustration grows apparent in her gaze, brows knotting together and lips curdling as her fingers squeeze just a bit more tightly. "One day I was with my people. And then the entire world felt like it was shaking... and in the next moment, I was here. Drifting in what you call space. It is... maddening. If someone is responsible for it, I will find them and I will kill them. If it's something that happened to my world..."

The answer for that possibility never quite comes.

Gothic Lolita has posed:
    The dark-haired girl processes that, listening intently as you explain, nodding slowly. "I am familiar with Asgard, though not personally with Thor or other Asgardian entities on Earth at this time." She has security files on them, but not quite the same, and usually they're very...sparse.

    he snort brings a faint flicker of delight to Lolita's eyes, like she's won a little victory by pulling even that small moment of humor from you. Her eyes become more solemn as you explain more of the sparation, and the fear of what might have happened to those left behind.

    "I'm sorry, I cannot help you either..." she says sympathetically. "I have not heard of such a thing before." She quiets for a moment, then says slowly. "Have you considered that perhaps...what you felt was something happening to whatever force holds your realm separate? If your people were imprisoned by Asgard...then it seems you, at least, are free, here. You might be able to learn more of what keeps your people prisoner...maybe a way to open the way for the rest of your people." she says thoughfully.

    There's another gentle squeeze of your hand at the unspoken possibility. "It's a saying on my world, that it's pointless to borrow trouble. You do not know what has happened. It serves no purpose to assume the worst; you could do nothing if that was the case, save seek vengeance once you knew for sure." She tilts her head. "...isn't it better to hope that all is well, than fear all is lost?"

Angela has posed:
    "They are untrustworthy and vile," is Angela's generous assessment of Asgard and all of its people; mentions of Thor just bring a brief, confused flicker to her gaze, a lack of recognition for the name. Maybe her world's simply been gone -that- long. "I have not come across them... but they will all pray they do not become personally familiar with me." But still. Seems like a bit of a sore point.

For now, that millennia-long blood feud is at least tabled for the sympathy that you offer to her -- for the comfort that you provide in the tender squeeze of her hand and the possibilities that you lay out. She blinks at your words, looking back your way to stare into those blue eyes; searching them for a quiet moment... before her hand wraps all the more firmly around your own beneath hers in an warm, grateful grip.

"... You're right," she decides, the nod of her head firm and decisive. "I still have a debt to be repaid to my people, and I will not stop until it has been repaid. All accounts must be settled." That, alone, seems to be enough to bolster her resolve with your own comforting assurance. "I will find out what happened. And I will fix it."

The wheels in her eyes are already turning once more, that intense, ferocious spark in her eyes kindled with a renewed brightness -- one that is only tempered slightly when she looks back to you. She hesitates for a moment, before adding, "... And I owe a debt to you, too, Gothic Lolita of Project Livewire. One that I will repay. Thank you," she considers a moment, trying to put the sentiment into words, "for listening." And here, she risks a small note of a smile, somewhere between a hint of amusement, gratitude and fondness. "I suppose you have a poet's soul, too."

Gothic Lolita has posed:
     A delicate brow raises at that, her lips quirking in playful amusement. "That's nicer than having the soul of a thesaurus, which,according to my family, is also the case, an accusation I've always felt preposterous if not quizzical, and thoroughly inequitable to accuse a pulchritudinous personage such as myself of being guilty of." she says, very solemnly. The twinkle not leaving her eyes, though her lips quirk, just slightly.

    "But..." she continues thoughfully. "Logically...if you owe me a debt for the simple act of listening and offering comfort...well..." She meets your white eyes thoughfully. "Then I must owe you a debt as well, Angela of Heven." She's serious now, it seems, her hand squeezing yours softly. "Many wouldn't care for the feelings of a mecha not yet completely sure of what they are yet."

    This time, it's a full smile, not just the teasing little quirk. "Luckily, this will mean we both have reason and opportunity to remain where we can both help each other and pay off our debts, yes?"

Angela has posed:
There's that long string of increasingly and sometimes amazingly alliterate words that tumble like a waterfall of verbiage from your lips, and through it all, it is all Angela can do to just stare, sometimes blankly, at the bamboozling barrage of wordplay. Her lips part. They squeeze together into a purse. She notices that twinkle, and her lips just pull into a slow frown.

"They have a point," she decides, so very bluntly. But though her voice may be flat, those ribbons that constantly bedeck her wave through the air like the amused or happy wag of a tail. Her thoughts betray her, apparently.

But you continue, and your assessment is met with the oh-so-natural inclination of her head in an easy nod, as if you were confirming what was just widely accepted fact. "Nothing for nothing," comes her answer, like someone repeating a mantra. The words that come after, though, are confident, decisive -- as if they will broker no argument to the contrary. "You're more deserving of attention than many in this world." At least she's nothing less than sure of herself, if anything.

"... But I suppose you're right. We both owe each other something now." She doesn't quite smile, not like you. But the message beneath her words comes in the soft grip of her hand tightening around your own. The brush of her thumb along the back of your hand. And the way she doesn't sound like she minds the idea of that mutual debt at all at all. "We will have plenty of reason to remain in each other's company." And that, she sounds more than fine with.