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

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."

He hasn't shot a thing yet, so his first response is to lift the rifle to his shoulder, aim it at the target, and fire. It hits near the mark, but not quite: if he'd been aiming for the heart he would have hit the breastbone. He makes a face, shrugs, fires again, and gets closer to his mark, but still not quite on it.

"I can," he finally answers. "I'll catch up with you and give you the keys."

He suspects that most of the pleasure she took in firing the gun has evaporated in the face of how wide her shots went from their target, but her determined gait looks dejected to begin with, so it's hard to say.

"Thank you," she says. She starts off, then pauses, not turning back to look at him. "I do hope you can join me. On the walk back to my room."

"I'll catch up," he repeats, this time more gently and less casually.

He's not exactly her boyfriend, but their relationship is close enough to that nonetheless that how to be someone's boyfriend is still a consideration, then how to be hers. What are her needs, wishes, and expectations? How is that impacted by the fact that she's not precisely human? There are so many variables.

He unloads the guns and stows them carefully, then locks up and catches up with her.

He catches up so quickly—she hadn't expected it. He must not have taken a full session for himself. That's not what she meant, but she appreciates this well enough she doesn't say anything about it.

"You know what's frustrating?" she says. "That I don't know I'm going to overdo it until I'm doing it." She's walking slower now, trying to avoid needing to stop and rest like she'd had to do earlier.

He turns his face to her with a serious expression, as he walks alongside her.

"That may be the case, but it won't be forever: you're improving, not deteriorating. I don't know if it's comforting now, however." He pauses, then adds, "You would have beat me in there in any kind of fair fight, but that's precisely why I'm practicing with rifles. I'm not adept."

Edited 2016-09-27 05:05 (UTC)

"I can teach you more about shooting, if you think you need lessons," she says. "That way when we do compete, it's more fair." The latter statement is a joke, though, and her tone is amused when she says it. She could beat anyone on the ship in shooting under normal circumstances.

"I probably need lessons with anything that isn't a 9mm." Arguably, he could use more training with that, too, but as long as he isn't in direct opposition to someone who's a crack shot, there's a good chance he'll be all right.

He allows a doubtful expression to settle on his face, then adds, aggressively earnestly, "Maybe I should take advantage of your weakened condition to win while I can."

She snickers lightly. "I like a fair fight," she says. "I also like being at the top of my game." The two would seem to be mutually exclusive.

"You're working hard. To be honest, in your place, I'd find it difficult to sit still. When I was injured -- " He cuts himself off. "Well. I'm not a very good patient. All these medical advancements on these ships, in comparison to where I came from, and it still takes time to heal. It isn't ideal if you're the restless sort."

"When you got the scars on your stomach?" she says, but quietly, so as not to be overheard.

"Yes. But if you want to know more about it, I'd rather not tell you in the corridor."

It isn't that any conversation will ever be private, in the presence of the MIDs and cameras everywhere, a level of surveillance that even he finds impressive. It's that he'd rather not be overheard by other crew members in any explanation of what happened on the Tranquility. They have the Ploiatos situation to worry about; they don't need to worry about :) too, not if :) is never directly relevant to them.

"Certainly." It's a level of courtesy she would not hesitate to give to anyone, but especially him. "Anyway, I learned already in this body not to push too hard. I died and had to recover from that, and I kept injuring myself from pushing too hard. It's like a downward spiral, and I'm not really wanting to go through that again."

One day, maybe he'll confess to her that he's afraid to die, in spite of the fact that people can apparently be brought back -- not afraid to risk his life if the reason is good enough, but afraid to die, after living an entire life on the premise that you only get one and that death is final. But not today, and not here.

"Was that different from this? I can't imagine that they'd bring you back deconditioned, if they could help it."

"I weakened and died three times," she said. "I don't know why. But at the lowest point of that I was better than this." She closes her eyes briefly, continuing to plod along—her expression is one of misery, for that moment. Clearly she despises this whole process.

He watches her for a long moment, taking in her unhappy expression as he walks alongside her.

Then he puts his hand on her shoulder. It rests there lightly.

"The difference in your condition compared to two weeks ago is remarkable. Believe me -- I don't want to patronize you, but I've watched you every day. You've gone from not being able to turn a page to being able to fire a .22." He pauses, then exhales through his nose as if he's sighing. "It won't be long."

He leaves the indefinite pause in their physical relationship out of it.

"It's not patronizing," she says. "It's good to be reminded, I think." She's not normally big on PDA but this is nice. Something about his touch grounds her. Inexplicably her mind goes to what would happen if Church was the one comforting her—he'd frame his encouragement in sarcasm and she'd answer back sharply. They'd get into an argument about it despite being on the same side of the argument. Daniel's a far different man from Church. She can't help appreciating those differences when it comes to something like this.

It's some time before they reach her room and she has to take a couple of rests along the way, but they make it, and she unlocks the room and opens the door. "Come in," she says, leaving no doubt as to the fact that she doesn't wish their visit to come to an end yet.

He follows her into the room.

He's seen rooms on this deck before, but the difference between his own assigned room and rooms on Mero is always startling: there are fewer, larger, more private beds, and the room itself doesn't have the borderline-nautical masculine sensibility that his own seems to.

It's not really hard to tell which bed is hers. Her roommates are Matt Murdock -- L doesn't know much about him, but he knows he's blind -- and a child. One of the beds has sheets that are both extravagantly feminine and feature skulls, the sort of harder edge and mixture of moods that he'd expect from her.

"This one?" He indicates the bed with a tilt of his head, a significant expression on his face.

"Yeah. Hard to tell, huh?" She pads over to the opening in the cover and sits down. She looks up at him, edging her walker away with her foot. "You want to come sit with me?" She sat down sightly to the left side, so there should be room for him to sit to her right.

He does, so he settles in next to her, then leans against the edge of the opening. It digs into his spine in an extraordinarily uncomfortable way, so he sits back up.

"I have to admit, I've always been jealous of these. Have you ever seen the beds on Nomo? They're like a cross between summer camp and a cabin on a pirate ship. Single, built into the wall. I'll invite you when you're feeling better, but I'll warn you ahead of time that you won't be comfortable."

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