thisavrou_log | ( april event log )

Entry tags:

( april event log )

Who: Everyone
When: April 14th and on
Where: The Moira + Del Pascia
What: The prison isn't all that contained after all.
Warnings: For the (sort of) undead, possible violence, and nudity. Please label your content!

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revive the risk
"Big things have small beginnings."

Things have been going relatively well for the crew of the Moira thus far despite their current circumstances. With D-E-L’s help, many supplies have already been gathered, and those with the necessary components have begun making much needed repairs. Yet, things aren’t as peaceful on Del Pascia as they might have seemed.

The resident facility AI has slowly started growing more and more unresponsive to questions, often answering in rather irritated tones and short, snippy answers. Still, no system glitches appear across the prison except for one minor detail: random doors and hallways suddenly lock and close for no reason and don’t open again for varying amounts of time—ranging from minutes to hours. Does this have anything to do with the unsettling feeling some crew members have experienced since stepping foot onto Del Pascia? Or is there a simple explanation that can be easily chalked up to as an accident?

☄ DECONTAMINATION #2 ( 04.14 - 04.17 )

On the Moira, crew come and go without much hassle. They take a transporter to planets and moons and back again without any fuss... Until today. All crew that try to reboard the Moira coming back from Del Pascia will be denied access, a warning flashing on their MID - Decontamination Required for Entry. It’s a protocol that hasn’t been enacted before, and the MID offers no explanation as to why it is now. The transporter will seal and then be permitted to dock in the Cargo Bay, where the procedure will begin. All crew on the transporter have to dispose of their clothing by placing it inside hazardous waste bags located in a compartment near the front of the craft. After all clothing is stored, a gas-like substance will fill the transporter, breathable yet tasteless, and once it dissipates, crew will be free to go.

Other crew members will be waiting in the cargo bay with clothing and blankets, per the captain’s instruction, but no clear explanation will be given for this sudden new protocol aside from “potential health risks”.

☄ D.ON'T E.VER L.EAVE ( 04.18 - 04.23 )

After the decontamination procedures for the Moira go off, the captains issue a ship-wide alert to let the crew know that the ship is picking up on something inside each person that boarded the space station. It is speculated that the crew came in contact with an unknown biological contaminant either during the station’s decontamination procedure or sometime after. At this point, they aren’t aware of what will happen to those that are carrying the contaminant, and the captains ask for anybody with experience to head to the Medbay to begin testing. Crew don’t appear to be in any danger, so they are allowed to continue gathering materials and supplies on board the space station at their discretion. (Every time they come and go, they will be made to go through the procedure described above).

Any crew remaining on Del Pascia will find that D-E-L is more vocal than ever before. It is answering questions, as well as trying to convince crew members to abandon the Moira and take up permanent residence aboard the space station.

☄ FEAR ME, LOVE ME, DO AS I SAY ( 04.24 - 04.28 )

Like most unfortunate things, it seems everything happens all at once.The noises you heard, a step falling moments after yours or a rattle coming from the vents, become louder. You can’t place where they are coming from at first. You turn, you follow, but the search yields no results. And then, without any warning, it’s crystal clear as “they” begin to creep and move from within the shadows and ruined sections of Del Pascia: the prisoners and workers said to have been relocated by D-E-L. Their voice is one, regardless of how many gather, and they tell you, “You can be happy here” and “I can make you better” shortly after.

Worse than the way they speak in unison is the way they look. Mutated and deformed, their prison uniforms are in tatters and covered in various levels of the same blood that the crew has experienced during their time on Del Pascia while visiting the prison blocks. They don’t attack to kill; they only try to detain, to drag crew members further into the station and are methodical and precise in how they do this as if they’re being controlled by something greater and much smarter than them.

To those that fight, D-E-L’s voice will call out, telling the Moiran not to struggle, to stay here and be safe, be better. The AI explains that life there on Del Pascia is easy, peaceful, and nobody will cause you pain. Suffering is a thing of the past and loneliness is something you’ll never know again. The prisoners follow the command of the AI, its voice falling from their lips. D-E-L claims they feel no pain, no hunger. They are united in one purpose and are therefore free of all strife. Wouldn’t it be nice to be free like that?

As always, fearing for the safety of the crew (and despite the disrepair of the Moira from events prior), the captains ask for all those capable to assist with extracting those aboard Del Pascia as quickly as possible before D-E-L tries to lock them inside. Running, after all, is better than dying, and it’s certainly something everyone aboard the Moira has gotten quite good at.

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D.ON'T E.VER L.EAVE

[ okay, so maybe church should've gone back to the moira when things started shifting from slightly sketchy to really sketchy, but if no one else is leaving, then fuck that he's not leaving either. he has supplies to collect, materials to gather, even if d-e-l is whining at him every second to please think about staying forever and ever and ever and ever and etc.

this is some ex-girlfriend/boyfriend stalker shit. he manages to keep his cool until the twentieth time d-e-l asks him and everyone else to stay, and then he's straightening from where he's bent over a pile of scrap, chucking a crowbar into the wall with an irritated huff. take that. ]

Dude, seriously? Fuck off. Don't be that guy. No one likes a Stage-5 Clinger.

[ he's talking to the station, to d-e-l's echoing pleas — though if you're standing nearby feel free to wheel around on him with an excuse me, punk. ]

FEAR ME, LOVE ME, DO AS I SAY

[ the mutated prisoners of del pascia pour from the walls like cockroaches, their limbs jerking unnaturally as they amble closer and circle around church. surprisingly, it's not their sudden appearance that unnerves church, nor is it the dried blood on their uniforms or the way they look at him like he's probably that night's dinner. it's everything they're saying, words echoed from d-e-l, whispers to stay and be better, to be whole and complete. familiar words, words he's heard before, all the goddamn time, in the meta's head and at night when he can't sleep.

he isn't fucking broken.

luckily for him and unfortunately for the poor bastard who makes the first move by grabbing his elbow, church still has his crowbar. he spins around to crack the curved end of the crowbar into the side of the prisoner's face, and down he goes as church unloads every pent up thought and memory he's had since first arriving to the moira over two months ago. ]

Fuck you. You think you fucking know me?

[ whack. blood sprays and splatters his hands and face as the prisoner's skull caves on the fifth hit. ]

You don't know shit about me. You don't know what [ who. ] I am. I know who I am.

[ whack then clang. church's crowbar meets the ground because there's nothing left to beat. if no one stops him or interrupts, he's going to go full rambo (you never go full rambo) and turn to the next prisoner, and then the next after that. ]

CLOSED TO TEX

[ as fate would have it, church's undoing isn't the creepy ass prisoners of del pascia, but his own fucking clumsiness.

figures.

when tex and church parted ways hours earlier, everything on del pascia had been relatively fine. aside from d-e-l's constant chatter, the station has always been quiet (probably too quiet, now that he thinks about it, but hindsight is 20/20), and it's only when it starts to become very unquiet that he decides he needs to find tex and get the fuck back to the moira. unfortunately, during his brisk walk through the station, he attracts a small crowd of very grabby friends.

he's already been through this bullshit several times, dodging reaching hands and responding to requests that he please stay with a shake of his head and a nope i'm good okay thanks see you bye. when that doesn't work, he takes to running, frantic footsteps clanging on the metal floors, and as he turns a nearby corner through an open door, he finally spots tex just ten strides away from him.

ten strides are easy. ten strides he can make. he slams a fist into the panel at the door to shut it behind him and moves to take a step forward — and promptly crashes to the ground as his pant leg catches in the closing door, locking his knee in place until he feels a joint pop and fabric finally tears to release him. the pain is very real and very unexpected (why put him in a synthetic body that can feel pain in the first place?), but tex is still ten strides away, he still has a shot, and he starts to push himself onto his elbows.

too late. the door opens again, and the prisoners of del pascia come pouring right back out on top of him, grabbing at his feet, his ankles, his legs. their begging has turned to insistent demands. no leaving. not ever. he's never going to fucking leave this place. ]

Fucking — shit, fuck. [ church's foot connects with the soft, rotting tissue of a prisoner's face as he kicks out with his good leg and then twists onto his belly, clawing at the grated floor. the throbbing in his bad leg is punctuated with sharp spikes of pain, like crushed glass under his skin, and he can still see tex across the corridor, so close, just nine and a half strides away now. he could've made it. ] Allison!

[ please come rescue your helpless boyfriend. ]

Edited 2016-04-16 10:30 (UTC)

[ Things on the Del Pascia have been strange but manageable up until now. She and Church had decided to go salvage some more when they'd heard about the new decontamination procedures. Tex was the one who decided they would be safe enough if they went in their human bodies, wearing clothes rather than their armor—there didn't seem to be any real threats in the prison that would necessitate the wearing of armor, and they definitely didn't want to have to leave the armor behind to be decontaminated after a visit wearing it. So they put on a couple of uniforms and headed on down, splitting up after a few idle minutes of exploration.

This was all well and good, until the apparitions of past prisoners showed up. Though it became clear within short order these weren't apparitions at all—they were there, in the flesh, and persistently grabbing at her.

She doesn't end up really having time to worry about Church. She's so busy with the number of zombies that has appeared to appeal to her to stay that he doesn't cross her mind. Not until he shows up. And immediately injures himself. Her efforts to extricate herself redouble once she realizes he's unable to get up, and then he calls for her, with a desperation in his tone. ]

I'm coming!

[ She picks up a zombie and swings it, slamming it into the rest of the group, mowing them down like bowling pins, and then she tosses the zombie aside and comes to Church's aid. He's luckily only being accosted by three of them, and she slams them aside with a well-placed kick. The first ones she mowed down are starting to right themselves, though, meaning she has to hurry up if she's going to figure out how to help Church in any other way besides what she's about to do—pick him up and egt him the hell out of this situation.

She bends, wrapping one arm about his neck and slinging the other behind his knees, and picks him up in a bridal carry. ]

Goddammit, Church.

[ the prisoners are slowly clawing their way up his body and leaving red, upraised marks across his skin with jagged nails as they tear holes through his clothes. church is so delirious with the pain from his busted knee that all he can do is squirm and half-crawl, half-drag himself across the floor with one elbow. his free hand is behind him, pushing against whatever he can reach, a face, a shoulder, just to get some goddamn space, enough to escape, enough to free himself and use the wall for support to stand.

turns out he doesn't have to do any of that.

tex swings into his field of vision just as a prisoner's hand closes over the back of his head and knocks his assailants on their asses with one well-timed kick. her strength is terrifying, but what's even more horrifying is how the kick doesn't seem to deter the prisoners for long. their limbs jerk and twitch as they roll back in church's direction, and before he even has a chance to groan oh shit, tex's arms are around him. ]

Ah — shit, wait, Tex, nooooooo.

[ truly, he has never sounded whinier or more pathetic than in this very moment.

as completely fucking embarrassing as it is to have your girlfriend effortlessly lift you into your arms like she's carrying home her sweet, country-grown damsel wife, church doesn't dare try to wiggle free. his leg is burning, and he draws a pained hiss through his teeth, biting at a corner of his lip and sliding his arm around her shoulder, his hand closing over the back of her neck to give her a firm squeeze. ]

I — [ as his knee is unexpectedly jolted, sending a red hot pain slicing down his calf and up his thigh: ] fuck, careful — I can walk, just —

[ — just completely ignore everything he's saying because clearly he can't walk, and for once, tex doesn't have to tell him to shut up herself. he snaps his mouth shut, grinding his teeth together and squeezing his eyes closed before he opens them wide, blinks twice to refocus.

so much for their first "date" off the moira! ]

Don't turn this into some kind of pride thing because I'm not afraid to leave you behind.

[ Yeah, right. If that were true she wouldn't have come to his aid in the first place. She leans back, balancing his weight across her torso, so that she can deliver a kick to a zombie's leg. Then she turns and eyes the situation at the exit of this area. Not only does she have to carry Church to safety, she has to worry about cradling his knee and not bumping his foot against obstacles—at least, as long as she doesn't want to hear him whine about getting bumped.

Her assessment of the situation is kind of grim. ]

Look, this isn't going to be fun. But I'm going to make it quick.

[ Because all she can do is use him to bodily mow the group of them down. She wraps her arm around his knees and shoulders more tightly, then lowers her head and charges. She knows, she knows, that this means his knee is going to be jarred, but there's simply nothing else for it. She grunts as they plow into the group, and then the zombies are all falling to the floor, knocked down, and there's the next area and the entrance to the cell block. She just has to get him to the main entrance, where the transporters are waiting. ]

[ well, credit where credit is due: she's right on both ends.

the pain church feels when tex starts moving is honestly indescribable, and what's worse is that he knows he doesn't have to feel any of it. he could easily abandon this body and attach himself to the nearest compatible electronic, but nothing on this goddamned death trap is mobile which means abandoning his body also means abandoning the moira permanently. as much as church likes to think of himself as flexible and adaptable ( i mean, hell, he lived in blood gulch for how many years? ), he really doubts he'd be able to make a zombie-infested prison ship work for the long-term. like, damn. he's not a saint.

so, he's stuck. and it 100% sucks. he has no worries that she'll drop him or misplace him, not tex, maybe someone else but never tex. now that she's here and now that they're together, they'll be fine, church knows that, but god the pain. when her body slams through a wall of prisoners, he feels like his blood has been turned to gasoline and then lit on fire, a burn that manifests as a sharp prickle in his fingers and toes and a roiling boil everywhere else.

he has to bite into his bottom lip until he tastes blood to stifle all sorts of undignified sounds and swearing, squeezing his eyes shut as sweat rolls down his nape. at some point, he briefly blacks out for half a second, a quip blip of nothing before the pain comes sliding back into focus. ]

God, fucking Christ. [ his words are slurred, drawn through clenched teeth as he breathes, in and out and in and out even if he doesn't need to. he accidentally grabbed a small fistful of her hair while she was slamming through the row of prisoners, and he relaxes his hand now, strokes up the back of her neck with shaky fingers in silent apology. ]

Edited 2016-04-24 06:07 (UTC)

[ It's never desirable to use the person you're rescuing as a battering ram. It does the job, but she knows it's not pleasant for him; she feels her hair get wrenched at by his grasping hand and she only winces silently in response. There's one thing they don't have the luxury of, though, and that's time—she can't give him time to rest, because the zombies or whatever they are recover so quickly and easily from whatever blows she inflicts.

So in response to his expression of pain she can only hush him lightly, resisting the impulse to brush her lips across his forehead as a comfort. She can't look at him in the face right now, because she knows he's in pain and she knows it's partly her fault. Even when she's able to protect him she can't keep him from harm.

She keeps moving, keeping to the center of the space so that any prisoners that lurk in the corners can't reach. And then they're at the entrance, and this means entering the transporter and carefully releasing him to set in one of the vehicle's seats, setting his leg down carefully as she kneels to set him down.

She remains there for a moment, just a moment of vulnerability where she looks into his face to see his expression, her hand still on his shoulder, and then the look on her face becomes more businesslike as she rises to bark orders at the attendant on the transporter. Church needs immediate medical treatment, she says, and they need to get back to the Moira post-haste.

Soon enough they're at the cargo bay and they're forced to strip before they're allowed on board. Tex is upset at the delay and she makes it clear to those in attendance, accepting only a jumpsuit for herself and a blanket to cover Church with from the supplies they're standing by with. She takes him straight to the medical facilities on the ship and sets him on a cot so they can treat his injury.

She steps to the head of the bed, figuring talking to him will help distract him from anything they're doing to his knee. ]

I'm going to take you to my room for your recovery.

[ It's funny, how easy it is to blame herself for his condition—knowing she'd failed to protect him back in the world from which they'd come, and now she'd failed to protect him here. Is that what they'd been brought together for? For her to keep him in check? It doesn't seem like her job. But not having done it leaves her feeling terrible. She reaches, as though to caress his jaw line with her hand, but she barely touches him before she draws back. They're too exposed right now. She glances at the medic before shutting her expression down from something open and vulnerable to something wry and teasing. ]

At least, I will if you can keep yourself from making a mess in my bed. Don't make me regret it.

[ church has vivid memories of pain. when he was ten, he scrambled up to the top of a dead oak tree while tex stood nearby and frowned up at him with one fist on each hip. you're gonna fall, leonard, she said. no, i'm not, he said. he did fall — hard, broke his right leg in three places and lugged around a plaster cast for six miserable months.

or after that, when he was sixteen and a junior in high school, and he told a beefy senior with four inches and one-hundred pounds on him to shut the fuck up and leave that poor defenseless nerd and his nerdy training cards alone. tex stood at his shoulder and said, he's going to punch you, leonard. no, he's not, he said. he did, hard, gave church a shiner that bloomed an ugly purple-red and knocked him out cold; he was seeing double of everything for two weeks.

she always knew best, even back then. still does now.

but none of that is real. none of that ever actually happened because church isn't real, church isn't a person, and neither is tex, and fuck everything about that. what's real is tex hauling him in her arms as she makes her escape. what's real is church trying not to squirm and biting on his tongue until he tastes blood, blinking again and again to keep from blacking out. everything from the transport to the temporary quarantine passes by him in a hazy blur, so many voices so far away, just a dull echo he can hear but can't actually process.

he's brought back to reality by the slightest brush of tex'x fingers across his cheek. instinctively, reflexively, he turns his face into her hand, but she's already pulling away, masking all her vulnerability with hard stares and stone straight posture. right. not here. never here. church draws a trembling breath through grit teeth and stares down at the man prodding at his leg with gloved fingers. ]

No promis — fuck, shit. [ as the man grips one hand at his thigh and the other at his calf, forcing church's busted knee back into its proper position. church has to bite down on his knuckles to keep from slugging the guy across the face, blinking back tears. ] You motherfucker, you did that on purpose!

[ Tex rolls her eyes, gesturing at the attendant that he need not bother to answer. ]

He's setting your knee, Church.

[ And then she's taking care of the business end of this whole experience again, turning to face the attendant with her hands on her hips. ]

Listen, you're going to give him the good stuff for that right?

[ She receives an affirmative answer, thank goodness—good for the attendant, because otherwise there might be trouble. Once Church's knee is set and wrapped, she gathers the medicine they give her for his pain management, wraps the blanket back around his hips to avoid showing his ass to the world, and picks him up again. Her hands encircle his shoulders and legs as she lifts him, and then she's carrying him, his whole weight a burden for her as she does her best to ensure he doesn't hurt any more than he has to. It's a fair walk to her room, but she's strong enough to handle this. She refuses to rest. Not until they reach the room, and she can carefully lay him down across her bed, which is made, of course. She lays him across the cover and settles his head on the pillow. ]

Hey.

[ And now she allows herself to touch him as tenderly as she had prevented herself from doing earlier, caressing his cheek. She'd noticed when he tried to derive comfort from pressing his face into her hand and though she didn't allow herself to feel bad about it, she knows it's something he needs. ]

[Andrew thought if he kept himself busy he could fight back all the anger he's been feeling lately - just keep his mind off of certain things to keep from losing his shit. It sort of helped? It was easy enough for him to "lift" scrap metal and whatever shit they could use and bring back on the ship. But eventually he tired of having to strip down (he's just really self conscious ok) and started wandering about with his camera hovering along side.

And then suddenly a crowbar. It hits the wall not far from him and he flinches, but otherwise is not very phased. He's had those days. He has those days. Frequently.]

...Dude, are you okay?

[That was a stupid question but Andrew is bad at...everything.]

[ oops.

church hadn't meant to startle anyone aside from the ship into shutting the fuck up. andrew just happens to walk by at a really bad time, and once the crowbar clatters to the floor at his feet, he takes a moment to reel his shit in as his shoulders lift, hold for ten seconds, and then drop with a heavy exhale. remember your breathing exercises, leonard. everything is totally, 100% fine. ]

Yeah, I'm. Uh. Great. Just — [ as he bends to retrieve the crowbar and turns to look at andrew. ] You hear it, too, right? The ship? Talking? Uh. That's not just me?

[ actually, on second thought, he really doesn't want to know if it's just him. ]

— Nevermind. Sooo . . .

[ andrew isn't just his roomie but someone that church actually likes, even if the kid is a little quiet and withdrawn. he welcomes the distraction from the scrap gathering and ship-talking, his eyes flitting from andrew's face to the camera at his side. ]

What about you, man? Find anything interesting?

[Andrew was actually going to reply to his question about the ship when Church just brushes it off. The thing about Andrew is as bad as he is at talking to people he learned to just...listen, and watch. Angrily throwing a crowbar against the wall aside it was kind of obvious something was wrong. The problem is he has no idea how to approach it, if he even should. He knows he gets angry when people press him on his bad days.

He rubs the back of his neck as he idly glances around.]

...Oh, uh, I don't really...I mean I have no idea what I'm supposed to be looking for. [Basically if it looks like something that might be vaguely useful he's been grabbing it and taking it back. No one has corrected him yet, so.] I just got kind of tired of the decontamination thing.

Do you need any help?

[ the difference between andrew and church is that church is some varying form of pissed off all the time, though he seems calm now despite his momentary freak out. andrew being here is good, means that church doesn't have to carry on conversing with a fucking ship, also means that he doesn't have to be alone because let's face it, this place is creepy as shit even without the artificial chatterbox.

at andrew's question, he lifts one shoulder in a shrug and turns back to his pile of scrap. ]

Yeah. You know that badass metal space suit I have shoved our in room? I need some odds and ends to keep it tuned up.

[ he kneels to shove his arm elbow-deep in the scrap, rocking back on his heels when he comes away with a small circuit chip and holds it up for andrew to see. ] Shit like this.

[ honestly, this is all work church can more than do by himself, but he doesn't want andrew to leave, either, doesn't want to go back to standing around in this creepy ass, horror flick inspired corridor by himself. sorry, buddy, he's putting you to work! ]

Oh. Where'd you get that thing anyway?

[Andrew settles himself cross legged on a big hunk of metal, almost looking as if he's not going to help. But some scraps and large metal things here and there begin to move out of the way so maybe Church can have an easier time finding little stuff like that chip.]

Did you have back home?

[Honestly this place is so sci-fi it hurts. Not just the ship and floating through space, but even the people not even from here. Like Nihlus, even Church with his super cool space suit. It's really surreal.]

[ oh, nice.

if church is at all freaked out by how effortlessly andrew uses his powers, he doesn't show it. the heavier, sharper scrap lifts from the pile, and church nods once in response, satisfied that he can now dig through the remains without risking tetanus or possibly losing a limb. ]

Nice, dude.

[ he wishes he could do that!!

at andrew's question, he nods again and plops down on his ass to seat himself next to him. the kid has the right idea. no sense fucking up his back or knees when he can sit down and shuffle through shit. the corridor is empty, besides; they're not in anyone's way. ]

UNSC-issued armor, yeah. I asked for it a while back. Everyone on my squad back home had a suit just like it.

...Thanks.

[Compliments!

He'll mainly focus on moving the bigger stuff out of the way and sometimes pulling little things that look useful out of the pile and off to the side in case it's something Church can use.]

Squad? So you're like, a soldier or something?

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( april event log )

church | cw for probable nudity, gore, violence and general unstable ai shenanigans | open

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D.ON'T E.VER L.EAVE

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