Chasing Illusions

[rassafraggin]

It isn't as tricky as last time, finding the other wandering soul, when the conditions become right for dreaming one's way into the mystic realm. The sky again is red, but there between it and the blue sea is a cloudy chunk of land, a port city in monochrome washes of faded purple. Steam and bruised exhaust mists into the sky, while the darker runoff of industry bleeds into the waters.

There's a hangar off the docks, a giant half-cylinder with a gaping square entrance, and the interior photo-flashes with sparks. A rhythmic clang and thump overlays the monotone hum rising from rest of the drab land

Maggie surveys the land from the deck of the Wave Dancer as she glides into port. Negotiating a berth nearer to the hanger than not, some shadowy almost-there but not crewman pays the Harbor Master as the Captain of the ship strides down the plank and turns toward the hanger. Though she wears her captain's coat, she has left the hat back onboard in her cabin. Tucking her hands into her jacket pockets she moves closer and closer to the opening. The flashes and sparks from within gleam in her hair and are reflected in her eyes.

Reaching the rectangle, she ducks within, eyes searching for her Scholar, her beloved half-Begman. "Sorensen?" Her call is not intended to startle, but it might anyway. There is hope in her gaze, though her incipient delight is tamped down a little. Held at bay by caution, though their last parting was not as painful as parts of that moment in time was.

Inside, the floor is a walkway perimeter on all sides, spanned by fragile scaffolds and bridges, darkened water filling the spaces in between. Broad windows stretch the tremendous, curved ceilings, but have become so filmed with oil and dirt, only a pittance of outside light glows through. Girders support the project hanging from cables, and at first glance it could all be a stage production of hundreds of ungainly mechanical marionettes. The Metasepia Pfeffleri has exploded outwards in a grotesque technical diagram, pipes, outer shell, guts and bulkhead, all hanging precisely, a three-dimensional puzzle waiting to be pressed back together again. Sparks shower from one section or another, simultaneously illuminating and casting jagged shadows across the hangar walls.

In the midst of it all, a bridging catwalk holds a lone figure, seated slumped against a rail support like an abandoned puppet with its strings cut. As Maggie's voice calls out into the echoing void, the fellow rouses and lifts his head. An electrical shimmer touches the flaxen tips of his hair and the stark green in the shadowed hollows of his eyes. "..Who calls me? What do you want?" his voice bounces back after a pause.

It is, at first, kind of a jumble of impressions, each more grotesque or peculiar than the last. Shadows become dark, ephemeral augmentations that fade away to cleaner lines than when the pulsing vibrance of the torches dies down again. The mechanical spiders attending to their work draw her eyes briefly, but then lose their allure. The oil and grime above is noted with an upward sweep that finds him and her glad start dies in concern and dread.

Stepping farther into the room, mindful of the walkway, the potential for tools to be strewn around, she searches the catwalks to find the one that begins nearest and leads her to him. Lifting her voice again, she calls, "Sorensen." There is joy in her voice, but it is tempered by the expectation of trouble, "I am Maggie." She does not add 'don't you recognize me' or 'don't you remember' for dream time is a harsh mistress and she tries not to pre-judge anymore.

He doesn't get up, but interest is kindled, a higher look, recalling his surroundings, his situation, before angling his regard back down to her. "Maggie.." he muses over her appearance for a moment, something like a smile lurking within the wan line of his mouth. "I have to say, your timing is like something out of the novellas of action and suspense, back home." The note of levity is strained, an attempt to reassure her while cautioning at the same time. "Welcome. Welcome to the Metasepia, Mark Two. She's a bit of a shambles right now, of course. You'll just have to visualize everything she could be.." Still no attempt to rise upon the spanning catwalk, not even as she follows the walkway to the short adjoining ladder on one end. A dark droplet falls from the grating under him and creates a high *plish* and a short-lived ripple of rings.

One might think that she was capable of dramatic timing, indeed. But here in the Dreaming, Maggie has yet to determine if their coinciding has more to do with urgency of need or mutual intent or something else entirely. It has seemed both and neither. Her brow lifts at the intimation of some kind of fiat but a smile warms relief to her expression at the mirth, however strained, she hears. Turning her attention to the bits suspended around the hanger, she tries to fit them together in her mind like an enormous three-dimensional puzzle. It almost works, too. Almost. She is left with the impression that something is missing so turns back to ask about it. Her eyes catch the dark drop and follow it down until it plops with an almost imperceptible sound in the liquid below. Her expression stills as her body almost refuses to move. She looks up at him, fear rising in her gaze, "You're hurt." She begins to move again in a mad, almost reckless scramble over boards, up ropes, leaping from one side of a yawning fall to another to get to him, "Sorensen." When she reaches him, she is soft and tender concern coupled with the firm insistence of a Captain of the line, "Let me see. We can field dress it and get you to a doctor." This is to cover her feelings of inadequacy. Healing is so not her forte. She should have brought Amy.

Dangling sections get to swaying slowly, softly groaning through the weave of the cables, as this boardwalk shakes or that pulley jounces in her rushing wake. Sorensen follows her progress onto the catwalk more with his eyes than his head, an uneasiness beginning to permeate his lax manner. "You shouldn't, Maggie. This might be a trap... another trap. A second trap," he amends, gritted teeth as he sits forward out of his slump. One hand is held over his midsection, to one side of his stomach, the red metal ring not the only thing glistening on his fingers. Once she is there beside him, he seems glad for her nearness instead of worried. His hazy green gaze slips from her face, to take in everything else; it's not ungentlemanly if one does it in under two seconds, right? It's kind of like he's not even keeping track, though. He moves his hand at her insistence, revealing the unremarkable slit in his shirt, the white cotton turned red all around it. The knife puncture within the shirt tear is not wide across but it is deep and deliberate-looking. Its detail is starkly rendered, solidly realized.

And that's strange, since much of one's dream experience prior to this moment has shown there to be distinct inability for one Dreamer to enforce his or her imagination and will upon another, without their active consent, even cooperation. There could be Dream magic.. or chaos.. at work, here.

Well, this certainly explains why her gallant scholar did not rise when she put in her appearance. She heard the thing about the trap and a white hot anger coils like a snake ready to strike deep in her gut. Someone will pay for doing this. Soon. But not now. Now, he is injured. So, she is here. If only it could always be just that simple. It is likely that she noticed his flickering attention as his gaze stole a glance or two. It probably warmed her heart, for her gaze flickers with warmth around the concern. That does not turn to fear until she sees the wound. So precise. So deep. An in and out jab that may have damaged internal organs and almost certainly breached the stomach. Bad. So, she reaches up to touch his cheek lightly with one hand, "I am not going to worry about a trap right this second, beloved. I am going to stitch your wound and bind it. It will hurt, I fear, though I will numb the area as much as I can. But I need you to do something for me." As she speaks, her other hand scoots a hip pack from her back toward the front. Was it there before? Hard to say really and dreams are like that.

Sorry doesn't find it unusual at all for Maggie to be going around with a handy bumpack. He hasn't peeked, so there could be absolutely anything down there! To be honest, he hardly notices its reveal, his gaze already caught and held by the livid wrath glowing behind her care and concern. He can't stop his chest from swelling from the fullness of his beating heart. Then his breathing goes more shallow, from the consequent jolt of pain, or her soft touch upon his face, possibly both. No... he's certain it was the caress. "Hmn? What's that?" he responds, hushed in his distraction.

Maggie has a slightly easier time of ignoring the electric tingle born of that caress. The touch does not linger once she has his attention. Her fingers reluctantly leave his skin to help the first deal with unlacing the pack. Her gaze drops briefly as she begins to remove first aide supplies. A small flask of something alcoholic. Rum? Whiskey? Peroxide? That is set to one side while she draws out a small fold of fabric containing clean, sterile needles. She begins speaking while preparing one of them to hold thread. "I need you to concentrate, Sorensen." Her eyes catch his again, the concern mingled with determination, "This is your dream, beloved. You get to determine what happens in it. I want you to decide that you are healed, then push through to make it so." Thread? She lifts a hand to select one fine, long strand of hair. Here, it is stronger than silk, thin enough to leave no scar. Dreams.

He regards her in rapt confusion for a moment. "What.. get better, you mean? Just like that?" Gaze dropping to watch the ultra-fine detail of her needle-threading - hypnotic in its realism - he starts to shake his head. "It's a dream, just a dream, but it's also my life. And I'm a scientist, Maggie, not a magician..."

Maggie nods as he wonders and watches and explains. She darts him a smile once the needle has been threaded, "I know, Sorensen. I know that this is your life and that you are my scientist. My beloved scholar. But you are also my inventor and all of those understand the importance of experimentation. Call it an experiment in the effects of cognition on the unconscious mind. Or... employing the power of positive thinking." Whatever works, right? She reaches for the vial of boozahol and opens it by holding the lid in her teeth and turning the flask until the lid comes off. Working carefully, she dunks the needle and hair into the liquid. Drawing it out again, she pours a bit onto her fingers. Looking at him, silvery circle between her teeth, she motions to the wound in warning. Some of that alcohol is about to be poured onto him. Her eyes hold sorrow and apology for causing him pain but determination lingers. She will do whatever it takes.

A smile dredges up in relenting agreement with her argument, and for those super-scientific terms. "Biofeedback," he murmurs. "That is definitely a possibility, although it is a process which requires years of training the mind..." He trails off as he notices her expression, and that cap curiously held between her teeth, and certainly demonstrates a fuzziness in cognition at the moment. Once he does understand what she means to do, his eyes widen, then wince with expectation, but he nods. "..Right, let's have it."

Poor guy. If only he had turned his mind to healing instead of explaining. She nods when he agrees and tips the flask over until she can drain some of the liquid into the wound. That? That has to burn. But at least it is over quickly. She offers him the balance to drink.

The liquid, whatever it might be, for drinks especially are subjective in dream, drizzles across the weeping cut. Even careful anticipation couldn't prepare him for the sizzling agony. The muscles through his lumbar and higher spasm tighter, his shoulders hunch upwards, his head falls forward. He hisses a mild expletive through his teeth, and then leans back against the post of the catwalk railing again, as it sways briefly under them. Exhausted, his body falls back into relaxation. Looking up, he eyes the flask before accepting it with bloodied fingers. His light green gaze stays with her, however, and is clearer now, awake, and tearfully aware. Letting out his breath, he fills his lungs slowly, then says, "That was too real.. but it means whatever you do, will be real, also.." Shut up and drink, Sorensen. He drains the flask in a gulp.

Maggie winces in sympathetic agony that is only in her mind. But aren't dreams all in the mind? She reaches over to clasp his upper arm once he takes the flask, "Yes. It will. And I am so very sorry, beloved." She needs her eyesight to be clear right now so does not allow even the faintest hint of tears to gather and blur her vision. Once she releases his arm, she bends to her task.

Maggie is not a surgeon but she has been a Captain for a while and has seen her share of cuts and slashes. This is deeper than many, it is true and the body that has been thus wounded is one she loves with a blinding passion. She wants to be finished quickly, but also minimize scaring. Luckily, the needle is very thin so she can make small stitches. Kneeling on the wounded side, she hunches over the gash, hair falling to curtain her movements some. Her fingers are deft as she works to keep the wound closed, the flesh matched one side to the other. In and out the needle goes, drawing the hair-thread through the holes.

It seems to go on forever, an interminable length of time bent just so, fingers growing slick with her beloved's blood. But the wound closes neatly with tiny stitches holding the edges together. And then, in less time than it seems, the job is done. She ties the stitches off and sits up. Her fingers, released from the need for iron control and a steady certainty, tremble for a moment as she surveys her work, "Now, I will bandage it. Hold on, love." She darts a glance up to see how he is doing so far.

Reaching across his chest to catch and cover Maggie's hand while it is still on his arm, he pats it reassuringly. "It's alright, Maggie.. sweet Maggie," he hazards that affection in a warm whisper, "I'm certain I have seen worse, not that I can remember any one incident." Quiet, Sorensen. He quiets, removes his hand from hers, props it at his other side again, and lifts his other arm to get a firm grip on the catwalk railing. That leaves his side exposed, still wet and disinfected by the douse from the flask.

He does crane and peer at the needlework in between controlled bouts of grimacing and soft wincing. Each tiny round of the little needle that cinches the edges of the wound together, puckering only faintly in her precise and nimble mending, as though working with finest satin fabric. "You're brilliant at that," he observes palely of what glimpses he can catch, his eyes more often moving to the crown of her bowed head, tracing the ripples of every shade which cascade down her arm. "I can feel it closing up... inside and out. Binding.." he gasps as her fingers tug at the fine ends, presently relaxing his hold on the railing. Inspecting the thinly crimped red line now entirely incongruous with the split in his stained shirt, he catches her quick look and gives her a winning smile.

Binding inside and out? She heard the comment, even in her concentration but the ramifications of it do not hit her until she is half way through with taking out a pad of clean cloth from her pouch. It is not a large swath, of course but is enough to let her fold it a few times over. That is when it hits and she looks up again to focus on her beloved scholar's eyes, "Oh? Oh!" HEr smile is as warm as his, edged with a great deal of relief, "I am really glad to hear that, darling."

Still... She lowers her eyes to her pouch again, the gesture not really masking the blush that rises when the praise he offered her during his ordeal is remembered. Since the slice on the surface still counts as an open wound as far as she can tell, she places the fabric over the mended line, "Hold this, please." Brilliant, eh? She shadows him a faintly shy smile though it is fleeting. "I will have to wrap your abdomen, I fear. I don't have any of Amy's nice adhesive. Please tell me what happened while I work?"

Sorensen helps by peeling up his shirt all around before securing the pad in place. Already, he moves more easily, like he's starting to forget how pained and weak he used to be, minutes before. The flirtations have brought needed colour and heat to the surface of his skin, and a brimming energy to his demeanor. It's a challenge to keep his eyes off her, but he has to when he recalls she is operating on so few facts at the moment. "I don't know an Amy," he muses quietly, before adding, "Well, it.. it was Bernard and, I suppose, I don't know if Iona played a part in it too. I've been sitting here, trying to wrap my head around it. Why he would turn on me like that." His focus moves around from one dangling chunk of ship to the next, probably understanding the logic of its deconstruction, but now rather baffled over it all the same. "Did you ever meet with them, Maggie?"

Taking a roll of gauzy, stretchy, clingy bandaging that could have been made from spider silk woven with the regular kind of silk from her bag. Teasing the end free, she places it to the left of the knife wound. Unrolling it as she works, Maggie bends forward to pass the roll across his abdomen, then around back to the other side. Of course this means that she reaches around him too which allows her to gently almost-hug him with each pass. Looking up, she shakes her head, "I do not think that I have met them, Sorensen. At least... Not by those names. Are you talking about your crew?" She notes the heightened color in his cheeks and the increased energy flowing from him. Wonder begins and she almost unwraps the bandaging to see if the wound is actually gone. But that could be testing fate and she is not yet ready to do that. Even here in dreaming.

Each almost hug is a moment to savour the closeness and inadvertant contact.. though perhaps some touch could have been deliberate? It's shivery good fun, wondering which ones were and weren't. And at the same time, frowning as he is prompted to recollect the circumstances that landed him here, being wrapped and embraced and... "They never spoke to you at all, then. And I am a fool," he murmurs, looking away. "I met them after my last run-in with my pirate brother left my craft foundering on the waves. Raph and her fantastic robot had up and left again. I despaired of ever stopping Lirre in my state... then they happened along, supported me until I could get all the turbines back online. Bernard kindly spoke of this industrial port, and how I could make all the necessary repairs and improvements. If only there was time.. but Iona said she knew her way around pirates.. and she could keep him busy for a long while." Sorensen trails off uncomfortably for a few seconds, aware of how that sounds, what it could mean, in Maggie's presence.

Oh, indeed. Some touches are certainly intentional. The way her breath hushes across his skin might either be on purpose or a reaction to her own reaction to his closeness. This one who has not yet been kissed. Whose kisses she has yet to taste. She pauses for an instant, shedding yet one more whisper of her youthful self to be able to focus on this task. When she finishes, she smooths the edge of the bandage against another swath and it sticks there. It will be easy enough to take off when he is ready. Sitting back, she studies her handiwork, then lifts her gaze very resolutely to his in order to listen. "Not a fool, dear heart." She does hear the part about Lirre and her gaze flickers away, then back again. It is a quick motion, thoughtful and hushed. Returning again there is a faintly resigned edge to her attention. "What did they do, Sorensen?" She can tell him that he need not worry about Lirre soon. She does not wish to distract him or lose this tale.

"They did.. at the time.. what I believed to be immensely helpful. It was I who did wrong, Maggie," he admits, lowering his arms without minding the rumpled up shirt or the wrapped midsection. "I told them how to intercept the Eclipse before she could get at the Empress's Tower. Iona departed on their flying vessel, and Bernard stayed to direct me to this island. By the time we arrived, he and I were friends. Iona came and went often, assuring us she had Lirre chasing his own tail. I could finally rest and work, thanks to them both.

"Except for my brother in a way, nobody had ever stuck around for that long. Days and weeks... though now I can see it had not really been that long," Sorensen says, grimacing bitterly, like his wound had given a twinge, but it's certainly not the case, anymore. "Just like when they said they would seek you out too, something shifted in my perceptions. They got into my head, Maggie. And all the time we spent together, overhauling, fixing, tinkering on the Metasepia. It was in my head. And when... Bernard and Iona quarreled, and she left, and he said it was because of me... and then, that knife..." He keeps shaking his head now, minutely side to side in dark disbelief. "I let it happen.. up here," he reaches up to tap his brow, working it all out even as he tells it. "Because I was convinced. I believed in how it all played out."

Maggie inhales slowly, her thoughts flying off and away, then returning. Trouble darkens her eyes, settling in a frown that puckers her brow between her eyes and turns the corners of her mouth downward. Lifting her hand, she almost reaches to smooth his hair or run a trailed touch down his cheek when she spots the drying blood on her fingers. The hand falls and she begins to put all of her supplies carefully away. "I think..." she hears herself begin thoughtfully, slowly, perhaps too methodically, "That it was not entirely in your head, Sorensen." Flickering a glance up at him, she watches him, weighing her words against his reactions.

He nods, gaze flicking to the blood. "Well, no, I realize that. I did really get knifed, after all. This island remains. And the Metasepia, she's in a state." His browline furrows as well, though, and his head tilts while he tries to comprehend her meaning.

Maggie rubs her fingertips together, the motion first thoughtful as she nods, "You did, yes." Then with greater force as she tries to rid her skin of evidence of his hurt and her part in his pain. Brushing her hands together, she finally drops them to her thighs, "Sorensen. I found Lirre trapped in a... thing. That made him go 'round and 'round in a maze of light, reflections and time. So... Yeah. He was chasing his own tail. Uh. I did not ask him how he got trapped. Now, I wish that I had."

Sorensen listens fixedly at first, then makes an attempt to get his legs underneath him, preparing to stand. His movements are careful, but not stiff, and begin to gain confidence as he finds the pain much reduced after Maggie's first aid treatment. "Iona really did it, then," he mutters. "Perhaps by some similar method of falsely reconstructing his perceptions..? But it means she did help me by keeping him busy and away from the Tower... but by your comment, it sounds as though he is free again," he concludes, frowning. "And with me stuck here with..-" He's interrupted by a loud chunky sound, and looks up to see that two suspended parts of the Begman craft had come together, perfectly aligned, and fusing.

Maggie shrugs, watching him rise, "Probably. That sounds like the way he was trapped, yes. And yes, he is free." The sound from above catches her attention and she looks up, her voice softening a little, "But he won't be bothering the Tower again. Please, my love. I need you to stay away as well. You see..." Looking back at him, she speaks more quickly as there is suddenly a need to get this part out, "It was built a long time ago when dream technicians were more adept at their craft. It fires the killing light at any who come close to it, friend or foe. The Empress herself cannot control it, Sorensen. It is triggered by proximity rather than by intent."

Once he's up, he offers her his hand if she would prefer to rise with it. His brows slant and lift in doubtful query. "He won't..?" he starts to wonder, and then subsides with a thoughtful look as the rest of her remarks solve that mystery. "Well. I suppose I'd have no reason to go there, if he really means to stay away. Dream Technicians," he repeats softly, marveling over the somewhat oxymoronic term. "They're like.. engineers? So, if they can build things like the Tower..." he asks slowly, gaze lifting to pinpoint hers, significantly. "..Couldn't they also tear it down?"

Maggie's gaze follows him up as he rises, ostensibly to check his movement with what might no longer be a dangerous wound. The reality is that she allows herself the pleasure of indulging in his movement and form. Her slightly embarrassed smile gives her away when he extends his hand. Lifting her own, she sets hers in his, fingers curling around to hold on as she rises. "He gave his word." Which means something to her anyway. Nodding slowly, she twitches a smile at him, about to deny that any now living have the magical or technical chops to affect Moire's tower. However, her gaze falls to his wound, then flies up to the ship above, "Oh. Shit." In that moment, she shivers, her hand tightening on his hand, "Of course they can. Or could. If..." Her eyes fall to focus on him, "I am an idiot. Whoever these people are, they don't want either you or him there." She pauses, then lifts a hand to her forehead, "Wait. I am probably getting ahead of myself. Did they ever say or do anything to make you feel as though they were after the Empress?" Empress? "And... Uh. Why do you call her Empress rather than Queen?"

His grip is light to start, giving her all the choice of how much and how long she wants his hand. As she lingers, his grasp curls and firms a little more, warming to the idea and the sensation. He looks a little distracted, while watching her consider the ramifications of the nasty if not truly deadly tricks played on the half-brothers. "..Hm?" He focuses more quizzically on her over that sudden expletive, then down at the squeeze. Don't get so excited, Sorensen. It's hardly the height of impropriety! "You certainly are not," he starts to protest, but subsides to hear her out. "Oh.. well. I'm fairly certain Empress is the correct title. A Queen rules just one realm, whereas an Empress rules many, governs even other Queens and Kings," he points out. "I have only really known one.. but I liked her. Really, it's enough that my thrice-damned brother wants to take the Tower. I would oppose it purely on principle."

His stern expression fades as he recalls there being another question from Maggie. "I don't think either mentioned the Empress at all, if they even knew what I meant about the Tower. Our discussions, like our time together, feel inflated now. I don't remember much of substance.." he mutters, frowning in concentration. "I do remember Bernard's last words before he left me to bleed out.. he said: Stay down. If you come after us, I *will* kill you." Sorensen drops his gaze to the link of their hands, musing, "I'd thought they were the words of a jealous lover. Suppose it could have been meant to keep me away from their business, considering how else they played me." And clanking away in the background, the Metasepia is reforming, section by section.

Maggie's grip does not release his after the squeeze, her fingers shifting slightly, unconsciously, to keep her palm almost centered against his for she is loath to release that contact. She masks the flutter of awareness, of desire, that the contact stirs in her breast by deepening her breathing just that much. His emphatic negation of her assertion that she is an idiot is heard, accepted and stored within for later contemplation. That his belief in her will warm her when she is doubting her faculties or abilities is certain. The smile that begins might show him how much his faith in her matters.

Blinking as he explains the difference between a Queen and an Empress, she tilts her head a bit as though the shift in perspective might give her insight, "Oh. Yes, I guess that makes sense. But? Uh? I am now wondering if we are talking about the same person. Who is the Empress you have met? If you do not mind, of course?"

Her expression darkens when she hears more of Bernard, though. Bernard and Sorensen's assumption about the other man's words. Her gaze falls to her hand, held within his before lifting to meet his eyes, "Bernard is not now, nor has ever been my lover, if that is what you thought. Nor ever will be." That Iona might have tried her charms on Lirre? Well, that is what it is. Her gaze does not leave his as she tries to concentrate on him enough to allow the reality of her denial of Bernard's attentions to sink in. It is hard, for there is a shifting going on behind her and clicks distract her from time to time. "He is not to be allowed to kill you. I will tear him apart before letting that happen." She would. If she could be here to protect him. Irritation at the situation and at the continued noises finally take their toll and she glances over her shoulder.

There are other concerns about Iona and Bernard that should not be set aside. Those return with a vengeance as she takes in the Metasepia's progress and she sighs in frustrated irritation, "You need to be on your ship, my heart, lest you lose it. If you are not guiding the restoration of the Metasepia, then Bernard is. Or Iona, I suppose. Are you healed enough to jump? Or shall I carry you?" Looking back, she focuses on him to gauge his ability and to show that she is more than serious, "If those two are powerful enough to trap Lirre and wound you within your own dreams, they may very well have the power to unmake the Tower. It protects Queen Moire of Rebma and there is a Sea Hag threatening her life. And your body in my reality. Can you protect the Tower from them? And if I can convince Lirre to sail with you, will you ally with him for that purpose? Until it is time for you both to wake and return to me?"

Sorensen tries not to look startled or amused by her offer to hoist him up, glancing down at himself as well. Then he offers a universal signal to mark his overall fitness for getting back in the game. The concept of the Moire of his youthful acquaintance being somehow the Empress of the Tower doesn't faze him for long, although he frowns in confusion for a moment while his imagination cobbles together enough logic for him to run with it. But he starts off his reply with a flat, "I'll protect the Tower, like I always have. I don't need Lirre for that." He appears unconcerned with the hydrofoil putting itself back together without his direct efforts. He has a technical crew, or something, working tirelessly in the background. "Bernard's not much of an mechanical engineer, though I didn't notice it at the time. He's much better at taking things apart." This time he does look up and around him, at the disassembly that is being methodically reversed. "Iona.. there was something peculiar enough about her that it stands out from all the nonsense now. She was always getting distracted looking at herself. She loved her mirrors."

Maggie sees his reaction even though he tries to hide it. Since he did try, she does not comment or make any assertion. If he is not aware of her strength, then... that is telling in a way, as he should be. She hoisted Merrisol and Shao-san up out of the cargo hold after all. Stopped them from plummeting to their deaths. Long ago, now. Or long enough ago. She blinks and stores it away somewhere. Probably in her quriouser and queriouser closet adjacent to the horror closet in her mind. She lowers her head at his flat reply, her free hand lifting to squeeze the upper bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, "Sorensen. I will be asking Lirre to help you with the tower's protection. As I am asking you to accept his aide if he offers it." As he is not concerned about the ship, she tries to put her fears aside. "This is bigger than the two of you, darling." Lifting her head, her frown deepens and her voice sharpens, "Her mirrors?" Looking up at him, her attention is focused, "Tell me about that, please?" Conclusions, Maggie. Stop jumping to them.

If Sorensen does tend to react oddly to any given reference, perhaps it can be chalked up to his Begman nature, unmitigated by any brash, smirky, piratical influence. However, it has also seemed that neither he nor his half-sibling counterpart have a good recall of any incident occurring after a certain point in their personal timelines. Perhaps the physical brain storing those details is required for anything more than the emotional impressions derived from such things..? Gazing at Maggie's gesture of warding heightened blood pressure, he does have the grace to look a twinge ashamed for his by now predictable prejudice against the pirate scum.

He takes a huge breath and holds it as he nods to her request that he stop being an arse about things. It's just so hard! But... he'll try. He starts to chance an appealing smile at her, but the sharper question about the mirrors draws his startled focus. "I don't really... wish to accuse her of being vain," he says, mystified into pondering the matter more deeply. "She was more like... how Mother was, I suppose. Preoccupied with something in the mirrors, not her own appearance. Beg pardon, Maggie.. but what do the mirrors have to do with this?"

Alas, she cannot savor that adorably appealing smile for it is lost too quickly for an honest reply. She hazards a faint smile anyway though it, too, slides away when the focus returns to Iona and her mirrors. Listening, she pauses long enough to digest the description. She blinks, refocusing on him, "Just that I have learned something about mirrors, Sorensen. The mages who use them can do things with them. They can communicate using them, for one thing. For another, mirrors record things that are shown in them. I don't know if that takes some kind of preparation or not but they can. So, you are right. It wasn't vanity but it was significant. She was either communicating, passing information or getting instructions, or she was recording something. That she was in front of the mirror indicates communication. Do you recall if she or Bernard shifted tactics or brought up new topics after Iona spent time with the mirrors?"

Sorensen thinks about that, then shakes his head. "I'm having a hard time recalling anything in order. It's all a mish-mash now, the more I look back at it and realize the weeks we spent were really only days. It's sort of how you say it hasn't really been years and years that we've all been here, battling over that Tower." He moves them aside instinctively as the lower parts of the Metasepia swing overhead, great giant cages with powerful turbine fans mounted within. "If they are technicians rigging the dreams of others, perhaps the mirrors were a way to access several dreams at once," he suggests.

Even though it is not new, concern still tinges tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and between her brows. There is pain in her eyes, for while it has not been years and years, it has been far too long. Even a minute would be and the months stretch behind her, maybe before her, like an endless sea of sorrow broken by bright flickering flashes of light. She knows the feeling, either way. A deep understanding is echoed in her eyes. Following his lead when he moves them aside, she glances at the great ship as it is coming together before she looks at him with renewed interest, renewed tension, "That is a good thought. And a worrisome one. If she is accessing a number of dreams at once, what is she doing? Seeing to it that you and Lirre are out of the way, yes, but what else?" Fear grows in her eyes as she lets the thought take root. Moire? She will need to check on the Queen soon. Anguish tinges her tone, "Will you be okay now, love?"

He takes her hand up higher in his, pressing it beneath the fingers of his other hand, with gentle emphasis. "I am tip-top, Maggie, and the master of my soul once more," he assures her, smiling gallantly. "And I have you to thank." Still cupping her hand on both sides, he exposes her knuckles and kisses them softly. Only seconds later, he releases her, gesturing to the platform and tall stairway up to the ship's interior. "I should be off. Will you be alright, my dear Maggie?" He turns a bit pink at that not-so-casual query.

Maggie smiles at him as he lifts her hand, and moreso at the reassurances. Her eyes study his face as he speaks, a blush beginning at the praise. It deepens when he kisses her knuckles. Her hand would linger in his, but she does not press for that. Not now. Turning to glance up at the hovership, she is once more amazed by this Begman's ingenuity. Her nod is both reluctant and resigned though she offers him a smile. Then she pauses, one hand lifting to rest on his shoulder. Lifting onto her toes, she touches a kiss to his cheek, then backs a step away. It is not the kiss she intended giving him, nor is it the kiss she daydreams of in quiet moments when she allows herself to imagine them all through this and together again. But it is a promise, "I will be fine, my love." Taking another step back, she lifts her fingers to her lips and blows him a kiss just before she vanishes.