thisavrou_log | ( september intro log )

Entry tags:

( september intro log )

Who: Everyone
When: September 1st and on
Where: The ship and on planet
What: Getting acclimated to ship life and exploring
Warnings: Please label any warnings you have on your threads

SHIP LIFE

"It is not the ship so much as skillful sailing that assures a prosperous voyage."

The Ingress has pulled you in. Your body experiences several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer from dizziness while others are perfectly fine. Once equilibrium has been reestablished, you will notice you are standing on a long platform and that the room is filled with a soft cerulean light. It's slightly humid and dark despite the glow around you, and various machines line the walls on either side, though they are not accessible from where you stand. Shortly after, you are led out and toward the medbay.

Inside this room, you are given a physical scan and sign a contract that states you are now part of the crew of the Moira with a specific job. This process consists of a complete work-up of medical history and current health, and afterwards, you are given your MID, a device that is integrated into your hand with only the slightest pinch. From there, you are guided out of the medbay and into the main hall with specific instructions not to leave.

☄MAIN HALL ( 09.01 to 09.03 )

After everyone is gathered together, you learn that these are your accommodations for the night. The captains explain that the Moira is not readily suited for such a large influx of people, and that this is only temporary. Placed around the room are a variety of blankets, sheets, and mats in lieu of beds, and crates of MREs have been provided along with H₂O hydration kits. Some time in the “morning hours”, all MIDs will receive a message designating rooming assignments and areas of the ship that are open to exploration.

GALLEY ● MESS HALL ● REC AREA

All remaining areas accessible to crew members are open later in the “evening hours”. Crew are also informed that the Moira is approximately two days from their current destination.

DESCENSION

"A force of nature unto itself."

From a distance, the planet’s reddish atmosphere slowly becomes more transparent the closer the Moira ventures, and mountain ranges, volcanic fields, valleys, ice caps, canyons, deserts, and impact craters are visible in stark detail. The remnants of a lone moon hangs in its outer orbit and impedes the ship’s ability to dock close to the planet’s surface. As the crew prepares to disembark, there are noticeable changes in gravity as well as some disturbances in energy output.

☄EXPLORATORY EXCURSION I ( 09.04 to 09.11 )

Due to unstable atmospheric conditions, crew members must utilize the transporters located in the Cargo Bay to descend to the surface. Each craft holds upwards of six passengers and is piloted remotely via Navigation. Once it lands, orders will be sent to MIDs detailing mission directives. These include: scouting surrounding areas for potential threats, determining if the mile-long road from the transporter to the nearest inhabited area is free of hazards, and assessing local friendliness.

Planetary Environment Details
● The air is breathable. However, there is a pleasant sweetness to it that generates an overall invigoration.
● Vegetation is sparse due to dry and windy weather patterns. It’s dusty, and the ground itself is rather gritty in texture.
● The initial temperature feels hot and causes the skin to prickle with sweat. Yet, the longer one is exposed to the elements, the less you are inclined to notice.
● There is an overall lack of civilization, and what populace there is remains centralized in one area. Crew members may stumble across the occasional explorer returning to their own ship; they are friendly and welcoming but also eager to leave.
● The sun does not seem to set. Even in the “later” hours of the day, it is still as bright as it had been at “noon”.

☄EXPLORATORY EXCURSION II ( 09.12 to 09.17 )

A thriving marketplace that was found during the initial search has been deemed an appropriate place for trade and much needed supplies. Crew members are encouraged to engage in local customs while continuing to maintain their current duties aboard the Moira, and they must assist in the delivery of goods to the transporter. They are more than welcome to explore this new area.

The Marketplace
● There is no monetary system in place; if there is an item you want, trade for it. (Locals will accept anything as payment.)
● Booths, shops, and tents line both sides of the pathways weaving throughout the area. Signs with written language are not recognizable; however, MIDs will translate any spoken languages so they are understood. Vendors are an eclectic mix of species, and not all of them are humanoid in form as they are from varying parts of the universe.
● The smells of foreign foods are everywhere. Yet, that familiar sweetness seems to occasionally overpower it. It is also loud as others bustle about their business.
● Natives are not unkind, but they are not as overly welcoming as strangers in the market are. They are quiet, reserved, and helpful to some extent. They are easily recognizable by the plain masks and hoods worn over their faces.
●Seedy areas are found in the depths of the market. Drug and sex trades are not uncommon but not openly displayed.

( OOC: For any and all questions, go here. Check THIS to see your tag. They have already been added to the comms, but you'll have to tag them onto a post before they show up in the list. )

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Niko was 6'2''. Not that you could tell it when he was against many others of his homeland and former occupation, where thugs were grown large and in a country where 6'0'' was the average height of men. It wasn't until he got out into the world that he realized that he was tall.

Bartender isn't exactly a job Niko wants, and one he'll be happy to part with when his new job comes along, which theoretically will be shortly. Until then, he strolls over to the counter to take whatever people are asking for.

At least this guy sounds like something familiar.

"I don't know." He said in his own Serbian drawl. A little country bred by Russian standards back home, but maybe a space Russian might not know the difference. "You Russian?" he asked as he had the decency to look over the wines, crinkling his nose as he tried to figure out what drinks were what.

"I don't know some of these fucking fruit. I could give you one and hope for the best?"

"Russian?" Miles blinks. "God, no, I'm not from Earth. I'm Barrayaran."

Niko's own accent isn't quite identifiable to Miles, either, but it reminds him vaguely of the speech of some of the more rural proles. More than that, though, Niko reminds him more and more of Sergeant Bothari, his old bodyguard -- tall, forbidding, at times homicidally dangerous, and a borderline sociopath at that. Miles doesn't really attribute that last to Niko so much as the others, because as tame as this conversation is, he gets the distinct impression that if Miles pissed him off enough, Niko might reach over the bar, pick him up by the uniform collar, and snap him in half right there. The fact that he's built like a thug helps clue him in. But rather than be intimidated, the strange sense of familiarity makes Miles downright cheerful. Ah, it's nice to have a little taste of...well, not home, but close enough.

"Sure, let's try it that way," Miles agrees laconically, propping his chin up in one hand. His legs dangle freely from the barstool, so he tucks his feet against the higher support beam across the legs, leaning forward. "A little blind tasting could be fun, assuming none of that stuff's tainted. I'm guessing you've never worked in a bar before?"

Ah. Well, something close to Russian, then but it was hard to tell if he was supposed to be that short, then. "I'm a Serb."

Judging Niko as similar to a homicidally dangerous borderline sociopath wouldn't be inaccurate- at the very least he was irrevocably desensitized and his guilt about his actions was more about turning into an asshole he didn't want to be more than it was about the people he killed.

"And no. And soon I will not be. I asked for different position. I'm not suited to this, I have done almost everything except it." And strangely enough, he probably wouldn't argue with domestic work in the cargo bay, not until he was so badly pent up that he needed an outlet. For now, the quiet would be good for him- when he got around to it.

"Anyway, here you go." And like a true professional of the occupation, he gave Miles a glass (the incorrect sort of glass) and the most interesting bottle so he could pour it himself. A true god among beverage dispensers.

Don't worry, Niko, everyone's a little confused by Miles at first.

Serb. Hm. Miles racks his brain for whatever he remembers about Earth history from school, but he only retained so much after all that time, and he's not even sure...when Niko is from. Miles gives him a noncommittal grunt of acknowledgment in response. Either way, he doesn't seem hostile toward Miles, and Miles likes him.

"It's good to try new things," Miles remarks blandly, watching Niko select the glass with a grin. He watches the stream of wine pour into the glass with bright eyes. There's a kind of excitement in blind tasting mysterious booze from behind a stranger's bar. "Thanks. So what line of work are you usually in?"

"I'm an exotic dancer." He said with the tone of a man who was both a sarcastic smartass and one who didn't particularly want to talk about his true occupation.

"I preferred transportation. People. Goods. Vehicles. Ships." Jobs that usually required murder as well as transportation, but that part he left out. And his line of work before this? Well, that was a doozy. And it was still so fresh with him that he didn't know what to make of himself.

"But yeah. That is at least one thing these new places have in common, new trouble to get into. Some good. Some bad." He got to drive the fastest car he ever drove in his life thanks to a station he'd stopped at, flew fighter ships in a simulation, floating cars with an overeager psychic kid ~~Luke Skywalker~~. "You will find some things you like. Maybe not this, but you will find it."

Miles raises an eyebrow. Transportation. Ah, yes. He's smart enough -- and experienced enough -- to see right through that thin veil of sarcasm and euphemism. Niko fits the type, at any rate. Thus far Miles' assessment of a Niko as a dangerously clever thug doesn't seem too far off the mark. Men like Niko don't live this long without being smart enough to avoid being caught, at least in Miles' experience. And despite all appearances, this scrawny, dwarfish little man has dealt in quite enough business on that side of the law.

"I know what I like," Miles sighs, and then winces at his own petulance. "I believe in the old wisdom that any experience at all is better than none, and that every skill has its use, but -- I'm not sure waste disposal technician is the best use of my talents." Miles takes a healthy sip of the wine Niko's poured him and cringes immediately, coughing. "Pthah! That one's a miss, I think."

He makes a face, dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his almost comically oversized sleeve, and looks up at Niko with sudden new interest. "Places like these? Does this kind of thing, er...happen to you often?"

He shrugged, and grabbed another bottle with a more alien shape, taking the first back and replacing the glass for Miles to try that new one.

"It happened once before, and once is still too much. I trust this shit as far as I can throw it." Then he rubbed his forearm without much thought, something hidden below the sleeve. "It could be worse."

Not to mention how many times he traveled of his own volition, to avoid bringing a bad life upon those he loved, to escape the madmen he didn't want to work for and accused him of failing things that he hated successfully doing for them in the first place. A dangerous thug, more intelligent than people gave him credit for, yes. But Niko hated what he was even before, and hated what that last place turned him into more.

He's not tricking himself into that maybe this place will be different bullshit this time. It will always be the same. Crooked contracts are proof of that.

"Who knows what fruit they use in these. From some planet that smells like ass or a world like heaven."

"Sounds about right," Miles says, agreeing on both counts. It's good to meet someone else with a general air of suspicion about this place -- as far as Miles is concerned, Niko has the right idea. The guy is smart. And he's got a history of his own -- that much Miles can tell thus far. "I could think of worse places to be."

Dagoola, for instance. Last god damn time he infiltrates a prison camp. He considers this new glass of wine, studying it, and takes an experimental sip. He makes only a slight face, this one at least a little more thoughtful. "Might not even be fruit," he offers, as if in consolation. "Where I'm from, they ferment maple syrup into mead. Let's try something else -- got any vodka back there?"

Miles probably shouldn't be getting into hard liquor with his abysmal tolerance, but he's earned it as far as he's concerned. He peers at Niko, his expression turning from idly curious to analytical. "So what was it like?"

Edited 2015-09-06 02:13 (UTC)

"Worse than the war." Which was a curt description, but the best he could mention. Worse than organized crime. Worse than the war. Capitalism, dirty and raunchy, the sort that sank into you and was inescapable and overwhelming, and lives weren't defeating an enemy, taking down the other side, they were truly nothing. Roaches to be obliterated for a price.

Niko has always hated capitalism. Even if this remained solely exploratory, he didn't trust it at all.

"But, we got vodka. I am even sure it is from something like potatoes." He found the bottle, poured Miles some himself this time, and in the right sort of glass. "It should clear out your sinuses."

Miles gives Niko an appreciative nod as he takes the glass. "In my line of work, that's not necessarily a good thing," he says, wrinkling his nose. The last thing he needs is to have a sharper sense of smell down there in sanitation. He takes a small, experimental sip and flashes Niko a thumbs up. Tolerable, at least. Miles ought to take it slow so as not to get completely hammered, but he's kind of having a Day.

"What war?" he asks, morbid curiosity getting the best of him before he can stop himself. "It'd have to be pretty bad to be worse than a war."

"War in Yugoslavia- but it was probably a very long time ago for you, and it is likely people stopped caring." When it wasn't on TV to be shocked by anymore, most people forgot. Except the people that lived there, in a ruined land.

"Tough luck friend. I had to work in waste disposal once. It was not pretty." It was also for a smuggling job, so he'd leave that bit out. "Well, if you manage to get this job after I leave it? This is the drink I like."

Oddly enough, Miles appreciates the gruff show of sympathy. It's genuine enough. "Thanks, I'll keep it in mind," he says, raising his glass in acknowledgment, sipping at his drink. Bartender. He could be a bartender. Would they give the bartending job to a crewman who'd need to stand on a crate to serve drinks? Hell, they gave him the waste disposal job.

"Earth history isn't really my area of expertise," he admits, drumming his fingertips on the bartop, and cocks his head to look up at Niko curiously. "But I'm guessing it wasn't one of those nice, clean wars they tell you about on the posters, eh?"

"I would say more, but I don't know whether it would make you feel better over being kidnapped or not."

Even before the Nehada, he had some experience- but from the other end. Honestly, though he hadn't mentioned it, nor ever would mention it, he felt this circumstance was sort of a comeuppance for him. He had always felt guilt for it, but this was likely his tenure of cosmic punishment for the people he'd taken for Bulgarin.

It was just a fucking shame to see other people caught up in it. If anything, his shitty experiences helped him maintain a sort of mental independence.

"I do not mean to offend, because my girlfriend is purple and has three fingers on each hand. But are you supposed to be that small?"

"Ah, you'd be surprised. I've been kidnapped under worse circumstances."

Miles almost does choke on his vodka at the question -- not that he hasn't been asked that plenty of times, but never quite like that. He has to hand it to Niko for originality, and his choked coughing turns a little into mangled choked laughter for a second as he sits up to gently thump his chest.

"Am I normal, do you mean?" Miles bares his teeth in a sardonic grin. "No, not really. It's not genetic, though, before you ask -- teratogenic, rather. My mother was exposed to soltoxin gas while she was pregnant with me -- assassination attempt. It wasn't very good for my in utero development. Had to finish carrying to term in a uterine replicator, which Mother would have preferred from the start, I think. Anyway, it's only thanks to a series of experimental treatments that they didn't have to scoop me out of the replicator with a ladle. But they could only do so much. Brittle bones and all that."

He waves his fingers at Niko as if in demonstration, taking another sip from his vodka -- and then the offhand description finally catches up to him. "Wait -- you don't mean Tali, do you?"

Edited 2015-09-08 05:58 (UTC)

"Sorry to hear that. I hope she was okay after that." Niko had a soft spot for mothers. He had wanted to be a father for a long time, but he sincerely doubted he could now. Not having seen the things he'd seen, or be as paranoid as he was. And he was pretty sure it wasn't in Tali's interests-

But when he said her name, he almost looked excited. It had been a while. That expression faltered with slow realization, a heavy weight.

"She didn't mention me, did she?"

He turned to get another glass. "It is a problem among these ships. Sometimes people leave, then they come back and remember nothing. I think it is that they are sometimes very alike, but have a history that is only a little different. They are the same person, but they aren't."

He smeared his hand over his short hair as he put away a couple of the clean glasses, which required quite a bit of looking to find their proper place.

"Somewhere a Tali is my girlfriend, yes."

"Oh, she's quite well, thank you," Miles says with a smile, touched by Niko's sincerity. Oh, his mother would like Niko, he's sure. But his heart sinks a little as he watches Niko's expression change -- damn, he didn't mean for Niko to take it like that.

"Oh, that's not what I -- she didn't mention you by name, is all," Miles says hastily with a reassuring grin. "I just wasn't expecting -- " What, someone who looks like a bouncer on Jackson's Whole? " -- I don't know what I was expecting, really. This place really throws you for a loop."

His blood chills a little at this fresh bit of knowlege about the nature of places like these. That sort of thing hadn't even entered his mind -- why hadn't he thought of that? So far Gregor and Ivan seem like...Gregor and Ivan, as they've always been, but the possibility that some strange, altered version of any of them could appear here is a sobering thought. Miles tries to shake off the thousand-yard-stare look that's been creeping over his face and rubs at his jaw.

"How different?" he asks, and then: "Have you ever run into another version of yourself?"

At least that didn't say he was hopeless, but Tali was a pretty lady, and could do a lot better than a guy that looked like bouncer on Jackson's Whole. In some other timeline, some other guy would be a lot better for her (though it was funny where being a drunken idiot who asked an alien girl if she had a belly button could get you).

"Not very different at all. I have never met another of myself, but I have met a few of other people. Samus Aran. Steve Rogers. Tony Stark." Even Tali herself had been a part of the Nehada crew before- and that was something he hated considering.

"Just enjoy people while you can. If they seem to forget? It is nothing personal. Crew switch has dicked you over. A good friend would never forget someone they gave a shit about."

It's really only a small comfort that Niko's never met another version of himself -- that it's happened to others is bad enough. It means it could happen to him. God, Miles already has a clone -- he doesn't need that, too.

He looks nauseated just contemplating it, so the obvious solution is to throw back the rest of the vodka. Not the best decision, in the grand scheme of things. He covers his mouth and coughs a little, making a face, but the burning subsides soon after. He's starting to feel it a little, at least, mostly in the tips of his fingers and the warmth in his chest.

But Niko's sincerity keeps him grounded. That's what Miles likes best about him, he decides. He doesn't deal in bullshit -- and for someone who so frequently does, Miles finds it refreshing. "Good to know," he says, slumping forward to rest both arms on the bar, and he idly turns his empty glass with one hand. "You're right, though. Good friends are hard to come by. They tend to be quite memorable, in one way or another -- and I wouldn't want to forget them, anyway."

"I see a lot of people who give up after losing one or two."

Niko crossed his arms and sighed. "Maybe that is something good that came out of the war. I always know I will lose people. But I am still able to get new ones." He still didn't like to get too close; he was a curse, even now he considered himself a curse, but he could get to know people at least.

"Unless they dick you over then you put a bullet in their head so it doesn't happen again."

And Niko put his own glass away at that. Yep. He was that sort of stand up guy.

"A sound social policy," Miles says blithely, although it's never been one he personally employs. He's not all that fond of murder, even if he's gotten his hands dirty more than once. He grins faintly up at Niko before his gaze drops back down to his empty glass. Hm. Perhaps he should've drank a bit more slowly. He can feel it muddying up his consciousness now, little by little, making his tongue thick in his mouth and his head a little heavy. Damn his pathetic substance tolerance.

"I won't give up," he pronounces suddenly, out of sheer stubbornness. Tenacious to a fault -- Miles is sure one commanding officer of his or another has put that down in his Imperial Service file at some point, although maybe in not so many words, and probably with a little more emphasis on his alarming tendency toward insubordination. He sits up a little straighter, though not by much, the vodka encouraging his natural inclination toward rambly chatter. "Maybe I've never lost anyone to the whims of-- of whatever this is, but I'm no stranger to the concept, and I haven't given up yet. I'm not going to start now. And so you give up -- then what? What's left then? Bleak resignation to a grim inevitability? No thanks. I can't imagine how bloody dull that must get." Miles lets his head list comfortably to the side, idly flicking a lone crumb off the bartop. "Much more exciting to stay hopeful. Keeps you sharp."

He'll keep talking if you let him, Niko.

Niko didn't make an effort to stop the rambling, letting him go on about losing people and keeping people and refusing to give up. All he interjected with was, "I wouldn't call myself hopeful."

But in comparison, he had become so. In these situations, after you had been through hell and was sure more hell would happen and the only way the world would ever be was heinous and hateful, then you knew you there would be more life after. It would hurt and sometimes you would resent living and wish it would just end, but it wasn't always impossibly terrible. And in that? There was something almost like hope.

And Niko was a more social animal than he liked to let on.

"I think you should at least give up on the vodka, though. Before you wake up with a wedding dress on and a new last name."

Miles breaks out into a giggle at that, the room swimming a little. The little man really cannot handle his liquor. Still, this is the most relaxed he's been in the several days since he got here -- since they all got here -- so that's something, at least.

"That might not be such a bad thing," he concedes with a slightly hazy grin. "I can list at least five people who'd be tremendously relieved if I got married today. Don't think they imagined me in a dress for it -- Ivan'd laugh, though." He fails to contain another giggle, smothering it against his arm, but he concedes the point, pushing his empty glass back toward Niko. But at the mention of name, a delayed thought sets in and he sits up suddenly, looking directly at Niko with slightyl dilated eyes.

"Do you have a name?" he asks abruptly, realizing they've got this far without any. "I mean, of course you've got a name. I assume you've got a name. Anyway, what is your name?" How many more times can he say the word name before it stops sounding like a word? He's tempted to test the theory, but he isn't nearly drunk enough to subject Niko to that kind of rambling.

"Niko Bellic." He leaned his hip against the bar, watching his new drunken friend slowly lose it to booze that he wonders might have been a bit strong for his size.

As a nickname, his name meant "nobody", but that was neither here nor there.

"So what's yours, friend? You so drunk you forget already?"

Miles puffs a laugh at that, lifting his head from his arms, and he grins crookedly at Niko.

"Not even close, I assure you." He manages to straighten up a little in his seat, more or less automatically, although the bar stool feels suspiciously like it's swimming under him. Better keep his arms on the bartop, then. "Miles Vorkosigan," he offers in return, and even a little drunk as he is, the mission of his rank and title is a conscious one. He has a feeling it'd put Niko ill at ease if he introduced himself as Lord Lieutenant. He offers a mostly ironic sweeping gesture of one arm that nearly unbalances him. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Niko."

He smiled his too tight smile at that, amused at the sweeping gesture, and was doing a half-ass job of wiping down the bar.

"You here alone Vorkosigan? Or you have friends come with you?" There was a very Serbian way to how he spoke, just tipsy enough that a little more of his native soul shined through in his words.

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