2022-09-02 - Hinengaro

Since his return from Auckland— no doubt helped along by the fact that his job has started to dry up— Mikaere has been a little more present at 5 Oak: it helps that he's been introduced to Una, now, and that, for better or for worse, he and Jules are... well, something. TBD.

In any case, Jules may have had to rush off to work, this morning, but Mikaere has not, and so it is that he finds himself lingering over a cup of coffee in the kitchen, scrolling idly through the day's headlines on his phone as he drinks it.

If there have been times Della's considered moving her little Keurig up to her room -- while working across (extra) timezones, deep in a deadline or just plain focused, or that time on the outs with Jules -- she never yet has; now, after her slight pause just shy of the threshold, she doesn't go to it but chooses to check the communal coffee pot instead. "Morning."

...And that pot may not be quite empty, but when it proves itself insufficient for the mug she's brought back down, Della -- neatly-clad enough to have had an early meeting, or just surmised it mightn't be only the three (five) of them -- eyes it. Fine. She gets to work, and there better be room for those grounds in the compost.

"Morning," says Mikaere, looking up. He has the grace (unusually?) to recognise that the pot is in its present condition because he hasn't refilled it, and looks faintly abashed for it— but not enough to make an actual apology. Instead, he lifts his mug by way of gesture, which may not help anything at all.

At least there's room in the compost. At least he's not left spilled coffee on the countertop. At least.

It could be worse; it could just be a trickle, the sort of thing left as an excuse not to deal with it ('It wasn't quite empty!'), whether the item of the day is the coffee pot or the milk carton or, worst, the toilet paper on its last square. There's enough coffee, maybe half a cup, for Della to drink from between tasks; she continues with reasonable grace. Not that she's being quiet about it -- not that grinding the next batch of beans can be quiet -- but neither is she particularly louder than necessary, calibrated to be about the volume of breakfasting with her housemates. Not that it takes much thought.

Once the pot is gurgling, she leans against the counter to wait. At least there's sunshine.

"Any news?"

"News?" repeats Mikaere, thoughtfully, reaching for his mug to wrap long fingers about it as he considers. "No news. Nothing in particular, in any case. More doom and gloom around the world; but none of it is new and exciting. I suppose that's not so bad a thing."

He hesitates, though, jaw shifting as he gives Della an appraising glance. "Actually," he says. "I was hoping to catch you at some point. Now's maybe not the time, but I wanted to... your powers and mine are aligned, I think."

Halfway through the sentiment, it's as if he's changed his mind; a little awkward somehow.

"Yes, no more new and exciting doom, please," Della says wryly. "Though I was thinking friends too, family."

But, over her mug: "'Aligned'?" Her dark eyes have focused on him, now.

"Ma's well," is prompt, if distracted: Mikaere's already moved on to that other topic, and his uncertainty prevents any further commentary.

Carefully, then: "Hinengaro. Jules says you touch things and pick up resonances from them. That.. sometimes? you don't have control over it."

She nods; good enough.

"That's true." She doesn't seek to copy his pronunciation. "How much do you?"

"These days, I have to deliberately focus on something, to pick anything up. It didn't used to be like that— fuck, as a teenager I couldn't touch anything without getting it, and let me tell you, there are a lot of strong emotions... er. Well."

He glances away. "Uh. The point is, I learned how to control it, eventually."

Her eyes laugh; her mouth hides its curve behind the mug. "Naturally."

"How did you learn? What worked for you?"

"It took a fair amount of imagination," admits Mikaere, wrinkling his brow. This is safer territory than— well, remembering what it was like to share illicit magazines with his school friends, for instance. Or much of anything, for that matter, teenage boys being teenage boys.

"But now it really is second nature. I imagined protective gloves between my hands and the world. Gloves of dampening power. It helped that as my power got stronger, I think it wanted me to control it; hone it. Not raw force, but something more... tailored to a situation."

"It wanted you to." Della considers him; his hands. "I haven't gotten that sense from mine, but then..." she spreads an open hand, "it's all new." No magazine issues for her, then -- though of course teenage girls would never share magazines or illicit fanfic, naturally, innocent sweet beings that they are.

"For a while, I'd wondered if that was why Ravn wore gloves," she adds in passing. But, "Didn't you have anyone to talk to? Did your mother know?" Even more wryly, "Most of the stories I've read with adolescents coming into their power, they get a mentor who disappears at a convenient point in their quest."

"I'm not sure what's harder," Mikaere admits. "Coming in to it as a child, or as an adult. I mean, 'harder' is relative. It's not that I ever regretted it. My uncle— ma's youngest brother is like me. Us. He showed me a lot of what he knew, and that helped. Admittedly," he hesitates, now, considering Della over the rim of his mug, "The easiest way for him to show me anything was in te pohewa. The— mindscape, I think Ravn called it."

Beat. "He's still around, my uncle. Guess I'm not part of some hero's journey narrative, ay?"

She laughs. "Did he ever ditch you? Tell you to stop bothering him, whippersnapper? Go on a quest of his own, for that matter? Maybe you are 'just a sidekick.'" There's no real hesitation before Della adds, cheerfully, "Maybe we all are."

She glances back to check on the coffee, never mind that the gurgle's not quite the right pitch yet; maybe this one time it will have perked faster. Then, "What's this 'mindscape' about?"

"Alas, we seem to have run short of quests... well, as far as I know, anyway. Maybe he was involved in all kinds of shit and just kept it away from teenage boy ears. I'll admit, I'd probably have been more a burden than a help at that age." White teeth are shown as Mikaere grins across the kitchen at Della.

"It's something anyone with even the smallest amount of mental powers can do," he explains, more slowly. "Opening your mind to other people. There's the deep version, where you bring someone in to your own mental plane... you usually have a representation of yourself, there, and of your own world, sort of; hard to explain. And then there's the lower level, which is just a bit deeper than the usual mind-to-mind talking. It can be... intense and personal, though. Opening minds. Good for demonstrating things, though."

Della has to laugh, her own white teeth mostly hidden. "Maybe we could look him up."

As for the rest -- she's eyeing him; at least, she is when she's not turned away to add a sprinkle of this and a few drops of that to her mug, coffee almost done. "Do they generally know how?" she asks. "Is it difficult to close the door," not quite Door, "once opened? Or to filter it."

Mikaere sets down his mug, though his fingertips remain resting upon the handle of it, his other hand still touching— if not actively holding— his phone. "No," he says. "I don't know that most people know how to do it, or even that they can. But yes, it's easy enough to close it afterwards. Filtering... more difficult. That's why a lot of people don't do it: too personal, too... intimate, I suppose."

He watches. He hesitates. "So I'm not saying here 'jump into my mindscape, I'll show you everything I know, it'll be fine', because it's not so simple as that. And really, you may be able to figure out for yourself how to turn things on and off: You're not a kid like I was, and I'm not saying you need my help, or anyone's."

"Understandably."

She pours. She stirs. "I certainly appreciate advice, Mikaere." She tests her concoction, then gets out a pepper grinder, though its contents are red; a little work later, including more stirring, it passes muster.

One more sip.

"The tricky thing, for me, might be that I like it -- some of the time, at least. I like walking down the stairs, my hand on the rail, and feeling its smoothness and the layers and layers of people passing by, of the rail doing its job. It's so steadfast, like it's pleased to be doing what it's doing, to have held up, to be smoothed less by polish -- though it wouldn't mind that too -- and more by hand after hand."

Abruptly, Mikaere grins. "Then there's no need for you to worry," he says. "If you like it, then that's perfectly fine. Maybe that's half the reason it works for you that way, and who am I— or anyone— to tell you that it should be otherwise."

He leans back, now, lazing in his chair in a way that almost suggests he's balancing on two legs of it, though if so, it's not by much. "You get to use your power the way you want."

For that, Della gives him the eye, complete with upturned brow. "Yes, well, it's just the other times. I'd rather have the control; I don't want to live open to everything or muted."

Of course, she also gives him coffee, or at least the opportunity for it; after topping off her own mug, she carries the pot over, setting it on the table on a hot pad instead of offering to pour.

"I don't like being attacked -- or that's what it can feel like -- when it's enough to take me over; I don't much like letting it show. There was a Dream, with Jules and Ariadne... no, wait, that was a Door, but anyway, the point is that there were things there that were, rightfully, despairing, and I wasn't much use to anyone right then."

Mikaere offers gratitude by way of his cheerful-enough grin, reaching out to take the coffee pot so that he can refill his mug. It means he has to get up, though: to the fridge for milk, though he's good enough to replace that in good time, too.

"Mm," he agrees. "That's hard. It can... catch you by surprise, sometimes. Things that oughtn't have that much emotion attached to them, but do. Or things that you think are going to... and don't. Well— the option's there. Even if you want to experiment on your own, or discuss anything, or whatever. No pressure, yeah?"

"Yes. Thank you."

Della's watched his progression to the fridge -- and, actually, requested a small pour for herself, the sort of thing she hasn't done much of since that very first Dream -- and back again. After another moment, "What time would you have just now? For discussing, anyway; I think you'll forgive me if there's no leaping into anyone's mindscapes just yet." If ever, is absolutely wry, but amusedly so -- if mostly inadvertent -- if he's listening.

A small pour for Della, and only then one for himself: Mikaere's silent about it, aside from a nod of acknowledgement along the way.

"Te pohewa definitely isn't something to jump into thoughtlessly," agrees the tall Kiwi, evenly, aside from that twitch of a smile. "Ravn's deeply uncomfortable with them; Jules... I think you'd have to ask her, but I know she found it intense. Some people use it as easily as breathing, and others are more circumspect. Discussing, though— I've time."

The order he chooses doesn't go unnoticed, though Della's only comment is that murmured thanks. She hadn't planned for a spoon; as she listens, she rocks her mug gently back and forth a few times, a slow oscillation.

"Good to know," she says at last, with a smile that's tucked up at the corners. "Want to start with an overview, give me more context? Or where you're coming from? Tl;dr helps."

Mikaere wraps both big hands around his mugs, his chin lifted slightly but not too much: he needs a good angle for looking at Della, for considering her and her question all at once. "Now that you ask that... I don't even know where to begin. You've met my Ma: she was watching for signs of power in all her kids, from when we were kids. So it was easy for her to see it, and then, once she'd worked out that I was creating illusions and using them to terrify my sister, to enlist her brother to help me. He's in and out of te pohewa like breathing: you and I would pick up the phone, but if he's within reach, he'll just reach out mentally, blurring the lines between normal mental communication and something more... open."

Phone, text -- "Does he 'knock' first?" Della has to ask, brighter-eyed, for all that it's hardly the main topic. "Or does he just boom, 'Hello, nevvie!' and override what you'd meant to be doing?"

While she's at it, amused, "'Normal' mental communication."

There's a crooked grin by way of reply, as Mikaere admits, "Not always— at least, not when I was a kid; I think that was part of the fun of it for him, and luckily, range is only a few kilometres, so he couldn't do it when I was in Auckland." By his expression? There are so very, very many ways for that to go wrong.

"Well. It is normal, for me. I grew up with it, mostly. I'll grant you... maybe more weird if you're not used to it."

"Mmm." By her expression, she's already contemplating quite a few.

"I'd half hope so. What fun would it be, if it were all same-old to whoever gets introduced; these things need mystique. Here's a question," because Della does have those, "Is it possible to amplify it? Say, if you're already talking on a cell?"

'Mystique' makes Mikaere grin again: crookedly, and half-hidden by the coffee mug he's holding near his face, though not as a shield (per se).

"That's a good question," he admits. "And one I don't have an answer to. It's not something I'd ever thought to explore. I wouldn't have thought so, but—" A hesitation, there.

"Did Jules tell you what happened, when she and I explored her Dream? Because that was also not something I'd've expected, but— things happen. Change."

His question cuts off other speculation; Della tilts her head, about to shake it, then hesitates in her turn. "Unless it was the one that got all ominous, bad things ahoy, et cetera. But you seem more sanguine."

Less of a grin, this time, and rather more of a grimace. "I mean— yeah. It wasn't good. But from what I hear, there's been bad omens for a while now, so it's not new. We ended up somehow jumping— I think— from the mindscape into a Dream, seamlessly. Which is not good: you can't get hurt in a mindscape, yeah? But in a Dream..."

"She didn't give details," but Della doesn't elaborate; he can decide what he wants. "Can't get hurt. Normally." Important data point. But, "Could you tell when it became a Dream, at least? Seamlessness or no?"

"And nor will I: it's personal, I think, and I don't... the thing with the mindscape is, it's all in your control, right? Nothing happens that you can't control— you or whomever you're with. So if unexpected things happen, that's a good indication."

Mikaere makes a face, lowering his mug back to the table, his free hand pressing flat upon the wooden surface. "Maybe I could've worked it out quicker, if I'd been paying attention. They are different."

Or whomever you're with. "Is everything that happens what you do on purpose?" Della checks. "Actively, or at least subconsciously? Or do you mean, by 'under your control,' once you do decide to 'impose your will,'" without looking down, she mock-terrorizes her coffee mug with clutching fingers, "you can make it go how you want? When it's not become a Dream."

"It's all in your head," is probably not as good an answer as Mikaere intended it to be: the wrinkle of his nose, abruptly, seems to signify that he's figured that much out. "That is— the former, generally. Te pohewa is what you make of it, what you put in and what you get out. Your mind, open to others. So you can create, but you also can't hide; and anything that happens is because of the minds involved. If that makes sense?"

Her nose has wrinkled also before she smooths it out, before he elaborates.

"I think so."

Della sits down, finally; she tap-tap-taps. Then, "I imagine it helps to 'know oneself' and all that."

"It does— but mostly because there's a good chance if you're trying to hide truths, you're going to fail at it and they'll all come out anyway." Mikaere's mouth turns up at one corner, a wry acknowledgement that suggests this comes from personal experience.

"I expect it's not necessarily the best way to find out things about yourself. We do like to pretend we've accepted ourselves, know ourselves, and... sometimes that's not strictly true."

"So hanging out there might be great for someone with a meditation practice," Della imagines without facetiousness, though there's a smile lurking as (tap tap) she lowers her phone, one that doesn't linger. Brown eyes intent on Mikaere, "If it weren't for the Dream-transition. Have you heard of that happening before, transitioning into a Dream? What do your contacts know?"

"It's basically a heightened form of meditation," agrees Mikaere. "Or— no, that's probably not strictly true. But related to it, somehow. There are similar elements, anyway. "

He's slower to answer the rest, watching Della with equally-brown eyes, his thoughtful and measured. "Dreams can catch you anywhere; I've always known that. I've never known it to happen mid-mindscape though, no, which doesn't mean it can't. I asked my uncle, but he wasn't certain either way, and in this one, ma's useless: no hinengaro at all, of course, and you can't use te pohewa without at least a little."

"Anywhere," comes with an audible scowl, though it doesn't linger on her lips. Her brows, though, with their crooked-up angles --

"Something else for the list, I suppose." Tap tap. "'Hinengaro,'" Della approximates it, "That's what you said before, isn't it, with the resonances; and she needs it for the mindscape." Her smile rises like the sun. "Lucky for you. Teenaged you." At the least.

He can't help it: the audible scowl draws a twitch of a smile, albeit one that doesn't linger: Della's got her brows and her follow up comments, and that rising smile.

"Hinengaro," he agrees. "You can be in someone else's, even share your own mental spaces, mind, if you don't have those skills... but you can't host it. Start it. It's complicated. But," a grin, broadening and brightening. "Lucky for me. Yes. There are some things no one wants their mother to see, eh? Even now."

More coffee is clearly needed; Della doesn't go easy on hers. Smiles help, but she still has to figure out: "So, all right, because this is all in your control -- minus the odd Dream turning up -- your mom can't hack into your mental Zoom call? But if you wanted to," though they've established he doesn't, "you could host the call but give her permission to do screen-sharing?"

Mikaere... stops. Just stops.

And then he begins to laugh.

It means it takes him a few moments to actually answer, and when he does, his voice is rich with mirth. "That's pretty much a perfect analogy, yes. And, she'd have access to all my files at the same time... or, I mean, she'd probably have to go digging for some things, but it'd be hard for my to, uh, firewall things? And anything I thought about would kind of flag itself to her."

Sounds delightful.

Della gives him a look, lips pursed so they can't smile. She waits. ...And then she sits back, holding her mug close. "Flagged," she says: bleah. Followed by, "Tell me about what you can do with firewalls? Keeping people out to begin with, and keeping them from rooting around in your private files once they're there. And then kicking them out."

"You can... shield. Firewall, yeah, if we're continuing with this analogy. Stop yourself from being pulled in unawares, and protect yourself when in, too. It's harder once you're sharing thoughts— everything's already so much closer to the surface, right?— but you can break out, easily, especially with practice. If you're diligent, super focused, you can bury things— I guess that takes practice too."

Mikaere sets down his mug, considering Della. "Security's always hard."

To this, Della nods: it is.

(Studied, she looks back at him, the morning sun lighting one side of her face; her hair stays in its braid, her earrings glinting small, faceted gold.)

"How?"

"How do you shield?" Mikaere hesitates, looking rather as if he doesn't know how to answer this: as if this is, to him, so obvious that the question scarcely needs to be asked.

His thought processes are clear on his face, though, in the moments that follow: the recognition, slowly but surely, that he, too, was taught this once. One corner of his mouth twists up. "It's easiest to visualise it, in the beginning. Building a wall in your mind, for instance, brick by brick. Can I... show you? Just that, nothing more."

Della doesn't blush; she just nods, again, her fingers continuing to wrap her mug. Or, rather, they've solidified there like so much soft brown concrete.

"What would that entail?" isn't a no; neither is it asking him to sign a contract, yet.

Mikaere draws back his shoulders, taking a moment to choose his words. Then: "I'd take your hand and open my mind to yours... not fully. Not to a deep level, just superficially. And only long enough to demonstrate, more visually. There would be no probing, on my part: the point, rather, would be to avoid sharing, on either of our sides."

He's not pushing. His hands, those big brown, solid hands, linger at the edge of the table, not reaching out, and not prepping themselves.

Della eyes him. She eyes his hands, brown and solid and, for the moment, stable; she eyes his expression.

She pours herself more coffee, half a mug's worth, swirling it around with the last of the milky leavings before having a swallow and setting that down. Definitively.

Next comes her phone -- after a few taps more -- which she locks and sets on her chair next to her knee, tucked under just enough that it won't readily fall. Her watch briefly reflects something -- letters, numbers -- in amber as she turns her wrist; it goes black as she extends her hand: not palm up, not palm down, but sideways. "Let's try."

Stillness is not altogether foreign to Mikaere; he's not one of these people always in motion, unable to simply be. While he waits— and it is waiting— he doesn't scrutinise Della's actions; doesn't study her.

The clock on the wall ticks, louder only because of the silence in the room.

As Della extends her hand, Mikaere focuses his attention on her, then inclines his head: the simplest of nods. His hand, so solid, reaches to clasp about hers, holding it snugly between warm fingers. The only real indication that he's done anything comes in the form of his words, and even they could so easily have been spoken out loud, except for the fact that his lips aren't moving.

The world hasn't fallen away, and though there's the faint buzz of static, inconsequential thoughts zipping this way and that, they aren't immediately flocking to Della like so many butterflies.

<< Okay so far? >>

"Fair enough." That is out loud, the active press of her hand altering subtly with the turn of her head: as though she could see those tiny thoughts, not what they are but that they move. Her far shoulder hitches up as though she'd wipe away the static, only it stays short of her ear.

Della's peering at Mikaere. So many times she hasn't noticed someone's telepathy, but given context, expectation, and that lack of movement... "Can you change your voice?" said with interest, not complaint.

<< No, >> is Mikaere's reply, and his grin is audible: how much easier is it to express himself, like this, where every syllable holds all the surrounding thoughts? So easy. So easy. << And you can never fool someone. You can't... lie, I guess. Not deliberately. >>

He's silent a long moment, studying Della.

Easier for her to hear, then -- "Well, not to trick someone," Della grants, and as long as he's studying her, twitches her (neatly groomed) brows at him. "But it's not as though you're speaking monotonously like something pre-Siri, pre-Alexa, either. 'Speaking.'" Air quotes. Amusement. "People do it all the time, code-switching."

<< That's true, >> agrees Mikaere, and for a moment before he does so, his mouth opens, as if that's still his default way of being, enough so that he has to reminds himself that that is not how he's intending to communicate right now.

<< Okay, >> he adds, then, straightening, his voice taking on a certain determination. << I'm going to build a wall. Keep all those pesky thoughts, >> the ones that are still fluttering about, inconsequential but temptingly present, << from bothering you. I'll start with the foundation. >>

He's visualising it: digging in deep to the earth, laying concrete. Adding bricks on top, layer by layer. A slow process— methodical.

Della notices; her smile's different, small and quietly tickled.

"They're not such a bother," she does say; she's not busy growing flowers, the way Una does and has, as complement if not lure. Still, her attention focuses on one, not large but bright, to see what she can see.

Meanwhile, "Does it always take so long, or is it because you're showing me?" And, "I don't know if you're seeing what I'm seeing," was seeing before she paid more attention to the thought, "but I'm seeing bricks; what about a butterfly net? Would that work, or would it encourage your thoughts to morph into t-rexes and rarr?"

<< It's instinctual, for me— now, anyway. So I do it automatically, for the most part. >> There's an unspoken understanding there, made all the more clear by their shared thoughts: in moments of stress or particularly high emotion, how easily walls can come apart, no matter how well grounded. << A net could also work. I could— >>

The wall disappears, and in its place, he erects a mental net, those butterfly thoughts contained within it. << Or it could be a bubble. Or— well, it's the intention that matters, rather more than the execution, if you see what I mean. >>

The thoughts aren't gone, but they're more distant, harder to pick up on, even if one were trying. Still, Mikaere's mental voice is more emotively expressive than his physical one: he meant it, when he said it was harder to keep things private, mind to mind.

Mind to mind. Della's talking out loud; she has no excuse when she says distractedly, "I've wondered about the use of 'instinctual' versus 'instinctive.'" More important is the net -- with her free hand, or with the mental outreach that maps onto that hand, she reaches to gently touch it and see what happens. It won't pop, will it? Will it change its shape if she presses a little more, or be brick-solid after all? "Intention."

By way of explanation, "I may be able to talk mind to mind. It seems to work best, though, while yelling."

The net ripples gently beneath Della's mental hand, but doesn't part: the thoughts may flutter against its barrier, may push and tug, but there's no getting past this barrier that Mikaere has erected between them. << Is there a difference? >> Wordsmith— politician or no— Mikaere is not.

<< It takes practice, to be comfortable with it. Yelling is the easiest. More subtle communications... that takes time. >>

"Of course. But what the difference is..." Della barely glances at her phone, doesn't reach; she's busy playing with the net, seeing what happens, leaning forward to check its dimensionality. She doesn't mess with it hard, doesn't try to rip or break it; she does experiment with a knock. And then a very speculative look --

-- but instead, "Of course it would," take practice. She allows herself a sigh, mostly for effect.

The net ripples with all the more determination as Della knocks. It's alive: warm beneath her mental hand and inclined to shiver and perhaps even twitch, just for emphasis. It wraps all the way around Mikaere's mental presence, delving deep into the ground and extending far beyond their heads— or perhaps it extends over his head, encasing him entirely.

<< Everything worth doing does, >> agrees Mikaere, his grin as 'audible' as it is visible.

"Really? Really?" Not that Della spends time on contra-examples; rather, "This is fun." Sure, her hand might startle away at a twitch, but it comes right back: the back side of her hand, this time, to see what's different. "Living jello. It feels warm; I wonder if it would keep a person warm when it's cold out, and what it might take out of you if it did... All right. Now what?"

Is there an acknowledgement, mental and unspoken, that he's speaking in generalities, in platitudes? Yes, of course there is: Mikaere's amused and self-effacing for it, though the amusement far outweighs the self-effacing.

<< You're full of questions I don't have answers to, >> he tells Della, with a ripple of mirth— additional mirth, separate to that other amusement. << Do you want to try putting up your own wall? >>

It makes her smile, and there's a lot of that going around; the tip of her head is unapologetic. But for the actual question -- "Sure? I don't know how we'll know if it'll work. ...Hang on." Della's going to switch hands, the physical kind, trying not to break contact or spill anyone's coffee. "Do I have thoughts flitting about too? I don't see them, but maybe I wouldn't." Does she? Her brows furrow; she imagines an overlay emerging from her skin, gossamer and, why not, rippling with iridescence. But whether it emerges...

<< You do, >> relays Mikaere. << And my shield won't necessarily stop them; it's a one way kind of deal, unless I specifically focus on keeping your thoughts away. Which— for the record, I am, but not everyone will. >> Shields, then: extra important.

He's silent, then, focusing on watching her work, the corners of his mouth twitching up; pleased. << Good, >> he agrees. << How's it feel? >>

"So I could..."

How does it feel?

"It feels like..." a sequence of tiny bright fireflies swooping out and carrying the iridescence with them, wafting right up to the border of his shield and alighting there (if his stays flexible, well, maybe they can bump themselves tiny perches). << h e l l o w o r l d >>

It makes Mikaere smile— no, it makes him grin, broad and bright and unrepentantly so. << Hello, >> he says by way of reply. << I hear you, loud and clear. >>

His shield does indeed remain flexible, rippling slightly beneath the tiny, insubstantial weight of those fireflies, but not showing any other signs of disruption.

"Roger that," Della says wryly, breaking out the radio code; evidently she can see the fireflies by now, because she's side-eyeing them: shouldn't they be more substantial? It's enough to make her shield -- or 'shield' -- flicker.

As that shield flickers, Mikaere aims a mental 'nudge' at it: a test, likely enough, to see how it withstands any pressure.

No jello here: it doesn't even wiggle, just pops, a psychedelic outburst that splatters surprise, now indignant surprise over the other shield. Della lets go, physically, claws at the air to rake it back.

Feel Mikaere's apology: it's genuine, but also a little not... at least in the sense of, well, that's what he was testing. Hypothesis proved, even if it isn't the best possible outcome.

<< Sorry, >> he says.

And echoes it physically, too: "Sorry."

That's a lot to feel, but at least Della appears to be able to tell it from her own, just now; for that matter, her indignation also appears inturned, given, "Well, that was weak." She squints at him, head a-tilt, checking for any last bits... there, there's one; she peels it back and starts to roll it all up like some sort of gum.

Somewhere back there, the staircase creaked, but quietly; if there were approaching cat paws, they've slowed, or stopped.

"So there's shielding against bits getting out, but also you getting in."

"Like I said," Mikaere acknowledges, reclaiming his mug now that his attention is not distracted by the connection of their power, "it takes some practice. But it becomes second nature, and— well, it can protect against unwanted resonances, too. But yeah; it can help with both. I can still potentially overpower you, but— it's harder."

"Not so much harder right now, I expect," Della says wryly. Her fingertips tap each other in lieu of the phone. "So there's building a wall, there're your invisible gloves... do they wind up going all the way up to be a bodysuit, by the way? Do you have to think about things like how you'd breathe, is your mortar something that might crumble -- that is, do you have to deal with the frailties of your metaphor, or can you just handwave all that?"

"And what's a good way to practice when you're not here, there, so I can see?"

"Your metaphor is as solid as you want it to be," Mikaere reassures. "So handwave all of that. Something'd have to have a pretty overpowering resonance for me to pick it up— as in, have it thrust on me— by brushing past it or something, so yeah, I guess the metaphorical gloves are really more of a fully body thing. But," he nudges the coffee mug away for himself, now, but perhaps more as something to do with his hands than for any actual reason, "If something is that strong, it might call to you anyway. Sometimes you just... know. If that makes sense?"

The last question is clearly one that he's giving consideration to, because although he pauses at the end of that last sentence, it very much is just a pause: his pause, brows furrowed in consideration. "Try focusing on the resonances, actually. Things you know have them, and build up to not feeling them when you touch the objects. It's all the same kind of thinking, right?"

Della glances at the mug as though it might have meaning -- but it's a passing glance, much as how the visible wash of relief for handwaving's already dissolved into focus; her eventual nod doesn't carry too many reservations.

But.

Her own brows have drawn in over dark, dark eyes. "I'd worry," Della decides to say. "That I'd lose it. Or that I wouldn't hear when I need to. I'd have wanted all this, a long time ago, but it never came."

Mikaere considers this for a moment, pressing his lips together in thought. "Try deliberately looking for resonances too," he suggests. "Both. I promise: things tend to 'sing', when they want to be listened to. You might try closing your eyes and extending your thoughts. It's like— heatmaps, maybe?"

When they want to be, that curves up a hint of smile.

"Give something to me," Della decides all over again, shutting her eyes. "Something of yours -- don't worry, just to borrow." She isn't peeking; in fact, once she's pushed her mug aside (still not looking), she uses that hand to cover her eyes, extending her other palm up where she hadn't before. That smile again: "I know too many things around here."

It could so easily be read as a demand, though it clearly isn't, and Mikaere's response is grin rather than hesitation. "All right," he agrees.

There's the sound of something metallic shifting, then: a clink and a thud. Then, something cool and smooth drops into Della's palm: not metal, but stone, perhaps, worked to perfect, curved smoothness.

Her smile is vivid, even with her eyes closed the way they are.

"It is so hard," Della tells him, not quite laughing, "not to guess." To guess with her everyday senses, with her memory, with her supposition of what he might have so readily at hand; can she ever really set that aside?

Still, accepting the carving -- or whatever it is -- comes with a certain percentage of trust: it's not just its physical weight at hand. Her fingers rub together over the smoothness as though polishing away some iridescent invisible gloves, as though summoning a cat (and, indeed, someone winds her way inside).

"Of course it is," grins Mikaere, even if Della can't see it. Maybe she can sense it— maybe all the better, now, with her eyes closed and her senses focused.

It is a carving: greenstone, New Zealand Jade, Pounamu. Perhaps she can tell that it is in the shape of a fishhook... perhaps not.

If she's seeking for it, not protecting herself against it: there's Tui, captured forever in the resonances attached to the object, all her fears and wishes for her son and his international voyage manifest in this gift. The fishhook— hei matau— is a symbol traditionally said to promise safe travels and good luck, and Tui wants both of these for her son.

Her prayers are captured, forever, in the smooth surface of the charm.

"Oh. Oh." Della can't relax into it, not with those fears, but -- but -- "It's very clean," she says. Her fingertips flex momentarily in the air; and she rephrases, "There she is, and it's like it's been polished in."

Polished with attention and focus, not unlike her own rings' stones: stones that reflect light but that aren't clear, that don't pretend to be while hiding inclusions in their hearts.

"But you said she doesn't do this? Or doesn't do that," the mindscape, not on her own.

Mikaere leans back in his chair, arms crossed in front of him as he watches Della with the charm from his keys. The corners of his mouth twist upwards, but he holds his silence until after that question.

"She doesn't," he agrees. "She can't pick up a resonance; that doesn't mean she can't leave one. She gave that to me before I sailed away, and she... worried. Those worries are baked in, now. I expect if you focused hard enough you could pick up even more... strong emotions linger longer. Of course," he considers Della, "You could also clear that resonance, if you wanted."

She's already shaking her head. "No, no, no," like it would be wrong.

And then Della tilts her head. "It says something that it feels that way, but you keep it on hand anyway." Her dark eyes open, first for the charm and then for him; she isn't solely smiling, and the conjunction isn't just 'but.'

That chorus of 'no' draws another smile from the tall Kiwi, though he holds back from comment until Della's finished, waiting for her to open her eyes, to see the charm, mottled dark green, all the smooth curves of a fish hook.

"Ma left it there for a reason," he says, simply. "She knew what she was doing. Who am I to remove that? Besides—" he looks, for a moment, like the troublemaking teen he must have once been. "Sometimes a man needs the reminder."

A fish hook; an open eye. But it's not that, not that last, or at least not one fitting into the other. She traces it with her thumb, and isn't pricked.

"Every day?" Della inquires dulcetly. Though, also, "How long have you had it? I think I get a sense for this long journey, this one in particular," she's still polishing it, the way it turns and curves, but in a pulled-in sort of way to clean up any lingering poetic prints, "but I don't know -- if that's even accurate -- if that's her original or what she added on. What she might have reinforced."

"It was a gift, before I sailed away," acknowledges Mikaere, who evidently chooses deliberately not to answer that first question. Does he need a daily reminder? Perhaps.

Perhaps not, too.

"I suspect she had a sense that I had itchy feet long before I acknowledged it, though, and— it was made by one of her brothers. She knew what she was doing."

"Mmm." She hears what he says; she hears what he doesn't say, given the tiny curved smile. She leans into it, looking at the fob with increasing intentness, hunting for any more clues: any subtleties that he might already know, might take for granted (might not, too). Anything that's new to her, anything that might help. Which doesn't mean she can't also ask, "Different uncle? It sounds like there's quite a troupe."

"Your mom's pretty amazing."

Further back, she can get a feel for the making of the object, too: of big hands that work with traditional tools, shaping and smoothing and polishing, and imbuing within the object what protection it can: safe journeys, clear sight. It must be the aforementioned uncle, his face— like, and also not-like Mikaere's own, Tui's own— reflected back in the green stone.

"Different uncle," Mikaere confirms. "Ma's got a big family. Some like us, some not. She's—" he's pleased, of course, by Della's comment about his mother, though there's a twitch to his smile, too: family's always more complex than that.

"She's herself. For better, and sometimes for worse too."

Oh. Oh. Della's charmed, witnessing this; her own hands move slightly, slipping into his movements, as though she could gain familiarity -- could understand just a little more, and add in her accord -- without any tools at all.

Which doesn't mean she doesn't also murmur, her half-smile absolutely artless because she's smiling to the fob and the uncle whom she sees and yet who doesn't -- does he? -- see her, "...Oh?"

It's such a thing to watch, those moving hands and the artlessness of that smile; it distracts Mikaere, temporarily, from what he's saying— until it doesn't.

"She's not as infallible as she likes to believe, that's all," is simple, and affectionate rather than admonishing of his mother.

Those dark-lashed eyes lift -- "Now I'm curious," Della irrepressibly admits. "Not that you have to share," but the invitation's there, perhaps more so because of the lack of admonishment. "Maybe she burned the eggs once?"

"And after that, I have an idea."

Mikaere's laughter is immediate. "Once? She's a terrible cook— don't tell her I said that."

The incline of his chin, however, suggests encouragement: Della should continue.

Her brows go up in mock horror. "Good thing we didn't stay longer, then."

As for the rest, "I think," Della says, petting the carving with her thumb, "what I need to do is to try making them. Or at least cleaning-slash-polishing-slash-preserving what's already there. I suspect I'll understand them better that way."

Mikaere's grin is broad: all teeth.

"I think that's a good idea," he agrees. "Try that— and if you need me to test what you've done, well, you know how to get in touch, eh?"

"I will," Della agrees. "Being able to get a sense of what your uncle did, that -- " she snaps her fingers, the ones not around the little object: that did it.

Oh, and she should probably give it back; she starts to hold it out, then, "Can you leave a marking that even someone who doesn't have the... hinengaro? ...can feel? Like a 'don't touch this' or 'this one's for you'?" And also, "Would you spell that?"

She supposes she can swap the carving for her phone. She supposes. And, after a moment's goodbye, holds it out one more time.

Pleased, Mikaere acknowledges Della's comment with a nod, lifting his hand from the table to take the carving, then letting it hover there as the other mentalist takes her final few moments with it.

"Hinengaro," he confirms. "H-I-N-E-N-G-A-R-O." Surprise 'g': it sounds more like 'hin-en-aro'. "It means... mm, intellect, maybe. Consciousness. As a direct translation. And what we pick up, when we touch things? That's tōiriiri. Resonance." 'Toii-rih-rih'. "T-o— with a macron, a line on it, to indicate the vowel is long—i-r-i-i-r-i."

And as for that other question? He circles back to it, hesitating. "I don't think so. Leaving markings, I mean. It's possible someone very sensitive could pick up that there was something there, but I've not seen it done."

"Oh hell." But she's smiling as she tap-tap-taps, getting the lettering to behave: how it's spelled but also how, to her ear, it sounds. "O-with-macron. Not the French president.... I remember reading awhile back, Cambodians have gone for voice interfaces over keyboards, because keyboards can't handle their seventy-odd characters. Rih-rih-rih-rih. I will try to remember."

As for the rest, "Bother. Well, I'll still experiment -- you never know -- but not spend too much time on it." Yet. "Maybe a daisy-chain..." Della's getting up, phone still in hand, collecting her mug along the way to finish it off. With a belated nod to the pot, "Want some more? Or are you done? There's always the microwave..." that last positively puckish.

"Seventy-odd," repeats Mikaere— who then laughs. "I'm glad we're not so complicated as all that. Some tricky sounds, but they all obey rules, at least. And once you understand the _pōtae, the macrons, they're not so bad either."

The look he gives her, though? That's one hundred per cent for the mention of the microwave, and the utter blasphemy it implies: "Thank you," he says, drily. "But I think I'll pass on that. I'm done. I'd better clear up my mug," look, he's learned something! "and get moving."

Not that he moves just yet.

Held-up crossed fingers for not-so-bad -- but for the blasphemy's reception, a curling, delighted smirk. "If you're sure," Della says airily.

Though there's no credit for doing what he ought to anyway, she does add the pot to her (light) load. "And, thank you. I'll see what I can come up with. Maybe leave you a surprise or two, for those testing purposes...." Having crossed the kitchen with her last words, on goes the water, followed by the soft splashes of rinsing. "I'll consult Jules." So, a serious mission for science.

Just for a moment, there's the hinted suggestion that Mikaere might go so far as to stick his tongue out, or perhaps make an even more dramatic face... but he does not. No, no: he's too adult for that. The sentiment, however? Still definitely there.

Grinning, as he rises, he says, "Do that. Catch me unawares, perhaps. We shall see." For science.

For now, however? Mug in its place, table cleared off, and the tall Kiwi, stretching, takes his leave.

Even semi-unemployed Kiwis have places to be sometimes.