thisavrou_log | ( september event log )

( september event log )

Who: Everyone
When: September 19th and on
Where: The Fixed Moons of the Runoff and the Moira.
What: Everything comes to a head.
Warnings: Nothing for now. Please label your content!

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the lucid disparity revisited
"Never be the first to arrive or the last to go, and never, ever be both."

By now, time has passed, and most of the crew have found some sort of comfortable groove with the natives of the unnamed island they crashed near. Partying, gambling and drinking, and more… Even the mysterious pool has given people who could answer its riddle insight in this confusing time. However, as the nights and days continue to progress and the parties begin to blur together, things are… odd. The hosts are still as kind as ever, offering anything and everything those at the temple-like building could ask for, but every so often, the world around them appears different. Clear, as if a fog had been lifted. Yet, it’s only a blink, and then, it’s gone, returning everyone to their regularly scheduled eternal party.

Down on the beach, the Captains are still as busy as ever working with those capable to restore function to the Moira. On the morning of the 20th, Navigator Manasseh’s vitals begin to slowly return to normal, her status on the Directory reverting to GREEN, and with it, life is brought back to the Moira. This, of course, means everyone is able to board the ship and leave, but most of the crew who traveled through the jungle and stayed at the party aren’t exactly willing to go just yet. Prior to this, a few of the crew who suddenly realized things were strange and that the people around them were acting strange - themselves included - approached Thán with this particular revelation, upon which Nathan Drake planned to bring back things from the temple to be tested for irregularities. Each sample returned to Cúrre does not alert her to anything abnormal, comprised of similar compounds—except for the water brought to her from the pool. Acting quickly, she reaches the same conclusion as a few of the other crewmembers do: that the water neutralizes the mysterious intoxication caused by everything on this unknown planet.

☄ FROM UNDER THE VEIL

The combined efforts of the crew and Curre have resulted in an “antidote” being made from the pool water; crew members pass it around to those down on the ship and beach, then utilize caution while administering it to those at the party. The change happens slowly for most. A drink that was perfect only a little while ago is suddenly sickeningly sweet and no longer enjoyable. The food tastes wrong. The music no longer urges you to dance but instead reminds you that your feet are aching. The magic is fading, and as it does, the cracks in the facade begin to reveal themselves. The elegant city built into the rocks is faded and cracking at the edges. Nothing is as it seems, especially the hosts. Their eagerness to please now has an edge to it. They try and ply their guests with new food, drink and distractions, but they know when the game is up. Do you try and slip away when they’re distracted, or do you demand to know why they’ve done this? Do you dare to find out?

☄ AS TIME GOES BY

Crew have begun to filter to the beach, and as the ship reboots, its systems expelling water and allowing it to float on the surface, all Moira-connected technology refreshes. MID devices, to those who check, will show that a year has passed since they crash landed on this strange planet. Those that did not join the party would not have been aware that so much time had passed as the planet seems to be under the influence of a blurring of time, probably due to the fact it is so close to the Luminous Sea. Crew would have gone through the motions and not realized that supplies were dwindling, and anyone who has themselves looked over in the Medbay will discover that they are, in fact, physically one year older. With the Moira finally functioning and with everyone on board, the ship finally begins to ascend and leave the planet behind.

The Captains are all working together to get the crew settled back on board and help those who might need some adjusting to this particular news. Since it has been such a long time, fresh supplies are badly needed, and the ship is directed towards the closest known place: the Mini Colony.

( ooc; For questions, go here. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"You just have to decide how much ammo you're willing to use up to practice with. I guess we'll see how bad things have gotten." Daily practice would be best, but it wouldn't be long before that would use up an awful lot of stored ammunition.

He gives his head a slow shake, frowning.

"Not much. We may need it." He remembers trying to get through the corridors, thrust into the role of a soldier and not very comfortable with it. More practice would have helped a little, although it couldn't have made him feel better about being a target.

"I wonder if it would be possible to do something with lasers... if there's any way anyone on the ship could develop something that would make it possible to practice accurately without expending ammunition."

That's quite intriguing and Tex shuffles forward for a few moments, thinking it through, before responding.

"I know for a fact there are people on board who can build something like that. We just need to get the equipment for something like that."

If they need to use the parts, she'd even be willing to let them use the scoring system to get the lasers and other parts needed. Saving ammo is more important than scoring contests.

His fingertips go to his mouth as he begins to ponder the idea in more detail.

"I wouldn't be surprised if there's enough of this sort of thing sitting around in scrap, if the new regime didn't discard all of it. But I can't see why they would have, and there are any number of people around who may be able to do it. It's a shame Luke Skywalker isn't here anymore. A shame he took his ship with him, too."

"I never met him," Tex says. "I know Tony Stark could do it, but he's quite busy with other things." Repairing her body, for one. "But I might ask him about it anyway. He might know who else we could ask about it and whether there are parts available."

Speaking of her body needing repairs...she stops shuffling down the hall and rests her elbows on the rails of her walker. "I need to stop a minute."

Since she pauses, he does too, watching her for signs that she needs help without looking like that's what he's doing.

"Just a rest?"

"Yeah. It shouldn't be long."

She feels this has derailed the conversation, though, which is annoying. She leans into her arms a little, unwilling to flip down the little seat on the walker for such a short rest.

"Maybe you and I could build it," she muses. "It shouldn't take too much research to work out how to do something like that."

He shrugs one shoulder, dismissive of the idea of the difficulty.

"If it's mostly lasers and sensors, they probably exist on the ship already. It would be a matter of assembling them. Electrical circuits aren't complicated, particularly if we can get the advice of someone more experienced. I have the spare time."

There's work in Tower, but much of that is simply the work of paying attention, which he'd do anyway: it's not as if he never has any down time. If he didn't, they wouldn't be having this conversation... and it gives them something to discuss aside from her condition.

She smiles; one of her lop-sided smirks.

"You're always ready to try something new. I like that about you."

Whether it's in the bedroom or out. She likes that he doesn't seem to care about the difficulty level of something, that he sees those things as challenges to be overcome rather than obstacles to be avoided.

The smile he gives her in return is tiny, more of a general brightening of his expression than a real smile. It's something she may be getting used to as they spend more time together as their normal selves.

"I don't like to be bored. Still, if you hadn't suggested that we take it on as a project, I might have let someone else do it. I like your initiative."

Now, while it's possible to cede the project to someone else if he and Texas turn out to have access to the materials but not the capabilities, he's very unlikely to. He'll take advice, but he'll see the project through if he can.

"Well, we're the ones who thought of it, so we're the ones who are going to care the most about seeing it through. It only makes sense."

She's sort of inserting herself in there with the "we"—really it had been his idea, but she was here to encourage it.

She takes this moment to stand fully upright, setting her hands on the handles of the walker.

"I think I'm ready to keep going."

"I suppose it depends on how much anyone else cares about wasting ammunition on learning to aim better. If it weren't at a premium, it wouldn't be a problem."

He waits as she stands upright again, then says, "Not too much further now. A few... no, when the Caducans attacked us... did you wind up with anything made of glass?"

Not a few months ago anymore, but it's hard to remember that when a year had passed in what felt like a week or two.

She starts shuffling forward again. "Yes," she replies. "My right arm and part of my left hand. Why?"

"Curiosity. It got one of my arms, but also my eye and part of my forehead. My arm was extraordinarily hard without being brittle, but that made it heavy... still, better than it shattering. I was luckier than I might have been." He pauses. "I was wondering how much of this you'd had to put up with in one form or another."

She lets out a voiceless chuckle. "I had to be forbidden from working my frustrations out on the heavy bags so I wouldn't shatter them. I felt like I was going to tear in half."

He recognizes that little voiceless chuckle of futility or frustration: he often does something similar.

"At least this is something that can be resolved through action, rather than something that requires waiting and seeing like that did. The glass really didn't -- ah, here we are."

Indeed, they've reached the shooting range.

"Is there anything you want me to do?" He means the division of labor to set up this session, but it's also an implicit offer to do more than his share of any more difficult things, so she doesn't tire herself too much to shoot or to make it back to her bed.

She reaches into her pocket to get the cabinet keys and hand them over. "Find that little .22 for me?" In the meantime she can wheel herself over to a lane and prepare to shoot. She can at least hang a target for herself, she thinks.

That's easy enough, but after he opens the cabinet and locates the .22, and a rifle for his own use, he turns to her with a frown.

"We're going to need to clean these first. Even if they weren't waterlogged, they haven't been fired in well over a year. I don't really want to take my chances."

A visual check that a chamber isn't obstructed is good practice, but at this point, it would probably be insufficient.

"Of course. There's a cleaning kit in there too; hopefully it's still pretty much intact." The valve of oil should be unharmed, at least.

She wheels over to the table and sits down in one of the chairs, waiting for him to get the gun and the cleaning kit out for her.

He locates the kit with little trouble, then brings it to the table with the two guns and takes a seat, opening the case and setting it in front of her.

"It's fine. I don't think the water got in here at all." There's no evidence of damage anywhere in the room... if there was any, it must have been restrained to a shallow layer on the floor, but he's not sure that even that happened.

"If it turns out that you don't feel like doing this tonight, we can come back tomorrow." That's a very vague way of saying if your stamina runs out, something she might not appreciate a direct reference to.

"I'm fine." She says it carelessly, while knowing what he's getting at. She's still having trouble covering long distances while walking, but she can certainly handle sitting at a table and cleaning a gun.

She checks all the parts and ammunition for corrosion, cleans and strips all the parts, and oils the joints. Then she loads the clip and stands to put it in her pocket. She has to set the gun on the seat of the walker to return to the lane she had started to set up, then snaps the clip into the gun.

The trigger is relatively soft on this gun, being a small weapon with a small caliber of ammunition. Even so, Tex finds she can't pull the trigger at all without giving a tremendous effort, leading to the gun pulling hard to the right when she manages to make it go off. She's tempted to swear aloud, but this is really the expected result, isn't it? She hardens the line of her mouth and tries again, in a measured, deliberate way. She needs to gauge how much pressure this takes and how much work it's going to be to improve her squeezing pressure. When she's done emptying the clip, there are fourteen bullet holes in the paper that haven't really ended up anywhere near where she was aiming.

He cleans the rifle as well as he can in companionable semi-silence, a job that's been his for the last few years, but that Watari would have performed prior to that... Watari would likely have been the one firing the gun, too. Sometimes this seems to L like something that has been taken from him as a consequence of the situation, but other times, he wonders if it's merely part of growing up. There would have been a time when Watari would have retired from his position as L's handler, and maybe L himself would have grown bored enough with all of it to retire, too. But it's hard for him to say, when his separation from his work had been forced on him rather than something he'd chosen.

Even though Allison isn't moving well yet, it's interesting to see her determination. She doesn't ask for any help, and he thinks that it's at least as much her enjoyment of doing things herself, her independence, as the idea that requesting assistance might be a hit to her pride.

He stands near her and watches as she empties the clip, and when she's done, he asks, "More ammo?"

"Yes," she says. She drops the clip and hands it to him. He can reload it for her, she figures. Normally she'd insist on doing it herself, but here she is in this situation—no sense in being overly stubborn.

He reloads the clip and brings it back to her. There's enough ammunition for this, but he's not going to offer to refill it again.

She expects improvement the second time around, but instead the spread of her shots deteriorates even more and she finds her hand is very tired after getting halfway through the clip. She huffs out a sigh. "I have to stop," she says, dropping the clip and setting it on the divider. "Can you put these things away for me? I think I'm going to start for my room right away."

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