thisavrou_log | ( event )

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( event )

Who: The crew of the Moira
When: 9/18 to 9/30
Where: Planet and ship
What: Main event; all info inside
Warnings: Effects from Exuo, heavy and graphic themes

PENUMBRA

"Into the darkness they go..."

As the crew enters its third week aboard the Moira, the majority of supplies have been gathered, and everyone will find themselves with more free time than before. The marketplace has offered numerous diversions, as well as the opportunity to trade for items they need or want. Life on the Moira is relatively peaceful, and there have been no unusual occurrences. Excursions onto the planet have yielded an invaluable resource called Exuo, which has been determined to be a rare mineral that is used for multiple purposes. A general awareness has spread among those aboard the Moira that, while it is used as an additive to food and drink, resulting in a slightly elevated change in demeanor and leaving a person feeling generally better, it is also in the air they breathe. The effects of Exuo will vary from person to person.

Yet...

Things have started to change. The once vibrant sunlight that hasn’t given anyone a moment’s reprieve is now slowly beginning to disappear, and with it, a shadow is being cast across the horizon. The red dust is more noticeable now than ever, blanketing every surface, and the planet’s true grunge surfaces.

☄THE EMPTY MARKET

The hustle and bustle of the marketplace has slowly started to taper off, leaving behind empty stalls and hastily closed up shops. What visitors the crew have encountered are no longer so friendly; they won’t say a word as to where they are going or why. All that’s left are the few things they could not carry with them to their own ships before leaving. But is it worth the peculiar looks the natives are giving as you traverse the now quiet streets to take them? What is this abrupt feeling of unease weighing down on your shoulders?

The only living things that remain, aside from them, are the members of the Moira, but it’s not a comforting notion, especially if you step into the ever-growing shadows.

☄THE NATIVES

With light dwindling quickly, nothing is safe anymore. Those people with the plain masks and hoods worn to hide their faces? They’re not so quiet and not so friendly now. Their behavior drastically deteriorates the darker it becomes, shifting from harmless and complacent to feral and dangerous. They lash out at anyone who gets too close, and they don’t hesitate to drag away those foolish enough to get closer. And those masks and hoods? They, too, have been tossed aside with the slow setting of those distant stars.

● Aside from physical outbursts, some of them may be found trying to damage the transporters to prevent return to the Moira.
● Their mouths appear sunken in, stained red like the Exuo this planet is known for. Or is that something else soaked into their skin? Are you sure all those visitors made it back to their own ships? Their small black eyes never seem to close either.
● They are thin in stature but relatively strong. It will take more than one person to overpower them.
● If approached, they will retaliate with sharp nails and teeth. Their movements are aggressive, meant to disable but not kill.
● Killing the natives comes with no reprimand from the captains.

☄PURLOIN & OBLATION

The suns have eclipsed.

What light there is can only be found through artificial sources, and with the lack of light also comes alterations in the crew’s own mood. Where MIDs had detected a decrease in stress and increase in endorphins, that is no longer the case now. Some may find themselves irritable for no reason, while others are torn between fits of paranoia and excessive anger. The pleasant sweetness of the Exuo in the air has dissipated, leaving a staleness behind, and those that have been exposed longer to the surface of the planet suffer extensively more than those who have not left the safety of the Moira for extended periods of time.

However, most crew members will find themselves desperate to return to the empty marketplace or even the mines. Perhaps they are in search of more Exuo, or maybe they simply want to find those natives to question them or take out that aggression on something not so fragile. During this time, disappearances are more noticeable than ever, and those who go in search of friends and crew may find more than they bargained for.

●the seized: The darkness is unerringly quiet, and the natives that still linger on the planet have faded away with the sun. Maybe you find yourself in the deserted marketplace, or outside the wreckage of a transporter that’s been torn apart. The sounds you hear come from your left and grow steadily louder beside you. The sudden irritability that the crew has been experiencing multiplies and transforms into a paranoia that leaves you wanting to beg for the sun to return. Thin but strong arms wrap around you, long fingers with sharp nails dig into your skin. They don’t speak, or attack with the intent to hurt you, merely pull you away and back into the shadows. Whether you struggle or fight back doesn’t matter, try to get free.
●the subjugated: With your arms and feet bound, you wake up in an unfamiliar place. It may be hard to remember where you were last, or it may be crystal clear. You were taken by a group of the planet’s natives, tied up and thrown into a hollowed out pit in the ground. The dirt smells sickeningly sweet, metallic, and it overpowers your senses. There are others around you, both crew members from the Moira and people you might recognize from the marketplace. You know now that the disappearances weren’t random, or normal, and are the result of the natives capturing explorers and traders for their own unknown reasons. **
●the scarified: They want the the light back. This much is clear now. The natives believe their sun was stolen, and the only way to guarantee its return is through offering worthy sacrifices. With whatever dim lighting there is, you make out the shape of an altar slathered in something wet and dark. You are on your knees beside others that were chosen, waiting in line to be sacrificed. The person ahead of you is lifted and carried to the altar, and with the natives gathered together,chanting growing louder, there are quick movements before everything goes still all at once. Are you next? Or has someone come to save you?

The only reprieve from this nightmare is the familiar sound of the Moira’s transporter ships landing nearby. The crew has banded together and are on their way to free you. **

☄ASCENSION

The planet is no longer safe. Through a series of disturbing events, it has become clear that the crew cannot stay. Supplies has been gathered, hopefully enough to last until they can find another place to dock, and the captains, through the MID devices and in person, are ushering everyone back to the ship. It is imperative that everyone board swiftly so that they can make a hasty retreat. There is nothing left for anyone here.

( ooc; ** These options are for those who signed up for the event. All other characters are encouraged to rescue their crewmates from these situations as quickly as possible! For questions and/or plot, go here. )

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For the moment he just took the harder words as surprise. After all, he looked plenty spooked. "Hey, don't worry. Anybody knows what it is to be mistaken for Russian, it is a Serb. I am just pulling your chain.

"Or leg? I forget how the saying goes."

He think it can go either way. But it didn't matter. He just knew the guy looked like he could spent some time off. "Maybe you could use a break, man. You look like you're about to fall down."

"I'm fine," Miles snaps immediately, just a tad defensive. He resents people telling him where his limits are on a deep level, and while a comment like that wouldn't ordinarily even register, he's feeling sensitive today. He wipes a hand across his forehead, realizes it's wet with sanitation water, and immediately makes a disgusted face, rubbing it hurriedly on his trouser seam. He moves to push past Niko toward a panel on the opposite wall, teetering a little.

"I've worked longer shifts and on harder stuff. And while they did give me the bartending job, it came with strings," he adds, trying only half-heartedly to keep the acid from his voice. Dimly in the back of his mind he knows he's being petulant, but it's not like he asked Niko to come down here. "You're looking at the only double-employed man on the ship. So unless you like your toilets and your taps to dispense the same water, I'm going to get back to work."

Niko raised his hands and backed off, wondering where this attitude suddenly came from. Well, maybe not suddenly. He knew when he was overworked (though with murder admittedly being his line of specialty) he tended to remain on the cranky side. Still, Niko had some element of pride and refused to allow himself to be talked down to. Miles wasn't quite doing that, but he was coming near close.

For now, Niko could at least say he wouldn't put up with it, but at least he also knew it could be situational.

He backed off, prepping to leave. "Fine. Sure. Okay. I'm sure you'll be the life of the party later. Go ask for someone to take part of the weight." Better to head out now than put up with what sounded like simmering bullshit.

(Really he shouldn't be judging, as Niko was always full of simmering bullshit).

For a man of only 4'9, Miles has a surprising capability for talking down to people. He certainly doesn't like being talked down to, and he gives Niko a withering look, deliberately splashing as he walks past the other man, because Miles is a mature adult.

"Oh, yeah? Miles barks out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Do you know any plumbers? Because I think I'd be hard pressed to find someone on this ship with a more shit job than this."

"I know some pretty bad jobs. You know, it is a lot of work but there could be worse. Someone will take it soon."

Which was a harsher sentiment than most would give, but considering how hard he'd tried for relatively simple jobs, or had seen immigrants berated for doing this very sort of work in worse conditions, maybe he felt a little harsher than he should have.

Or maybe he didn't. Miles seemed pretty moody.

"You know, I infiltrated a prison camp once, and at times this is still more demoralizing than that." That isn't even true, and Miles knows it -- but what makes him bite his tongue is the inward horror as it registers, just a fraction of a second, that the Dagoola prison camp episode wasn't one of Lord Vorkosigan's escapades, but Admiral Naismith's. He's been careful to remain strictly as Lord Vorkosigan during his tenure on the Moira -- context demands neither in particular, and this is much simpler, prevents the potential bleedover between his two personas that could end his career on both ends and create a considerable political mess, at that. Even more than that, Miles would be lost without the ability to escape into his identity as a mercenary fleet commander. There's no political threat here, but as his father's said, the mind is the first and the last battlefield. If he starts confusing the two in his head, the entire house of cards would come falling down.

I've got forward momentum. There's no virtue in it. It's just a balancing act. I don't dare stop.

The wild flutter of panic at his slip sours quickly to resentment as he glowers up at Niko. "If you won't take the job, what the hell makes you so sure someone else will?" Miles says acidly. "Apparently you're quite familiar with getting your hands dirty."

Swing and a miss again, Miles. He nearly bites his own tongue off? What the hell had possessed him to go and say a thing like that to Niko? He ought to know better -- does, in fact, but the words are already out of his mouth.

Edited 2015-09-28 12:10 (UTC)

He worked his jaw, teeth lined up and pushed forward and back as the muscles back there and at his neck tensed while little else seemed to move (unless his eye caught that moment his fingers splayed and then clenched). He stared at Miles furiously.

He should have left a moment ago. He should have walked out. But then this tiny little runt was comparing prison camps to a menial sanitary job (to a man who was a survivor of an ethnic war born out of a worse ethnic war).

And then the remark about getting his hands dirty.

Niko had managed to hold his temper for about a year, and maybe it was a credit that he had restrained himself this much for a time. Walking out would have been a far better idea. But he couldn't even stop himself right then- he proceeded to backhand Miles.

Which was at least a little more reserved than it could have been. But maybe at least one verbal response would have been good.

Miles sees the little warning signs, those minute twitches of hard muscle, and he knows what's coming. He's seen this telegraphed enough times. Too late to stop it now. He squeezes his eyes shut and braces himself.

Niko's a much bigger man, though, and even holding back, a strike from his hand knocks Miles back off his feet, sending him to the wet floor with a pained grunt. His vision bursts into senseless color for a moment, but as far as he can tell nothing's broken. Yet.

Why'd you have to go running your stupid mouth, Miles Vorkosigan?

A good question, actually. This is ordinarily the point at which Miles would curl into a ball to keep his head and torso as well-protected as he could while saying something, anything he thinks might get his assailant to stop, because Miles has never been able to take a beating -- not for lack of spirit, but for his stupidly frail body. He knows he's given hideous offense to Niko, a level of vitriol totally undeserved -- where had that come from? He likes Niko. Something is very wrong somewhere, Miles decides as he collides with the floor, his mind working furiously against the cloud of prickling anger he's only just realized, dimly, that isn't wholly his own. He knows he's been a little manic, sure, but this? Something is messing with his brain, and that thought inspires a suffocating panic.

But the panic produces more of that spiteful anger, that senseless berserker rage he's always ascribed to others and not himself, and before he knows it he's on his feet again, lurching toward Niko with a wordless shout. No, no, no, some small part his mind screams, panic clouding his chest, but it gives way to paranoia, a whispering suggestion -- more than that -- that of course this would happen, of course Niko would strike out at him, why else would he have come down here...

He's going to kill you, it says, and Miles believes it for a frightful second, long enough to take a wild swing at Niko that he knows is going to fail even as he moves. It's a terrible idea, trying to hit Niko -- almost as bad as provoking him as badly as Miles did just now -- but he can't stop himself, his mind a turbulent mess of senseless anger and paranoia and nauseating horror at the whole thing. His face is contorted in anger as he moves toward Niko, but there's a light of panic in his eyes as he does.

Edited 2015-09-28 20:58 (UTC)

A wild swing at a man who has much longer arms.

Niko steps out of the way of that punch, and quickly reaches in. But not to punch like one would thing- he moves fast, but instead he snags the front of Mile's uniform and physically holds him out of punching distance.

Okay.

There was something very odd here. The mere desire for survival should tell the little imp that this was a very bad call.

"The hell is wrong with you?" Niko snaps. But he was already reaching to grab some of the tools that he still had on him from dicking around in the cargo bay. In this case the thing he managed to grab was what looked to be a roll of tape.

Something in Miles is tremendously relieved when Niko doesn't hit him again -- the rest of him rages at it, longs to give Niko back what he gave Miles. Miles thrashes helplessly, legs kicking out but still unable to reach Niko, his feet dangling at least a few inches off the floor. His uniform is sodden in patches, the hair on one side matted to his face from the water on the floor, and he claws uselessly at the arm holding him up, teeth gritted.

"I don't -- know," he manages to choke out, exasperated beyond all measure, but whatever clarity he manages to scrounge up scatters again when he sees Niko reach for the tape. That sickening cocktail of rage and paranoia makes him redouble his futile efforts to escape, wishing he could wriggle enough to bite at Niko's hand. That'd get him to let go in a hurry. "Put me the hell down!"

"No. Not while you are acting like crazy little pissant. I do not know you that well, and I know this is not normal." But his presumption, for the time being, was that Miles had drank something unpredictable at work.

If there was anything more awkward than trying to restrain and tape the wrists of a small wriggly man, he was hard pressed to find it. But at least he was trained in any number of odd situations at this point. "And I am taking you for someone else to deal with, before you drown someone in the sink or get your face broken."

If you knew me a little better, you'd know I'm always crazy, Miles thinks wildly in his flood of panic, still thrashing wildly in Niko's grip. He resists at every turn, mostly on instinct and a nature fundamentally inclined to be ornery, but the rest is fueled by the weird anger-paranoia fusion that his entire brain seems to be steeped in right now.

"No," Miles yelps. The fact that he's being forcefully restrained only heightens his alarm, and he grows frantic. "For god's sake, will you just -- "

Miles tries to twist and pry his hands out of Niko's grip in exactly the wrong way at exactly the wrong time and he feels the distinct sensation of two of his fingers breaking, the bones snapping like twigs. His half-started sentence immediately dissolves into vicious invective, hissing curses through teeth gritted against the brief flash of pain, but it allows Niko to get his wrists taped up, finally. Miles kicks out uselessly. "Son of a bitch!"

"See, this is all the more reason to do this! If you are going to be a big man and pick fights and break things." At least he managed to get the tape around his wrists then. At least that wouldn't bother the fingers anymore. But it meant he'd have to get him to the infirmary.

The next moment Miles would find himself on back, on the floor, with his legs tucked under Niko's arm as he wrapped duct tape over his knees. So far he was being kind in that he wasn't putting it against skin. Except for that last piece he was going to have to put over his mouth.

At least the malleability of his fingers showed him that he probably shouldn't punch him to knock him out.

Is that big man comment meant to be a jab at his height? Miles doesn't have a chance to demand an answer before Niko's turned him on his back and begun securing his legs -- instead he lets out a noise meant to be a growl but comes out more as a plaintive yelp. Is he to retain no dignity in this place? Bad enough that he's almost certain that something is messing with his brain -- maybe even Niko's, although this about fits the behavior profile Miles has imagined for him -- but being pinned down in his own workplace, being held and bound against his will by someone he'd hedgingly call a friend of his? Is there such a thing as a friendly kidnapping? If so, he's probably had friendlier than this. Even through the unshakable anger, the sheer absurdity of the situation comes through to him, and Miles can't escape the little bout of hysteria that results, a nervous laugh that gets distorted into something sounding almost like a cackle tumbling from him. He snaps his teeth shut and tries to get his breath.

"Wait, don't -- " But then there's duct tape over his mouth, and Miles' face reddens with the new added effort of trying to force swear words through the tape.

What the hell? Did he just laugh? It made Niko happier that he'd put the duct tape on him. Because then it felt like he was at least restraining a madman. Whatever he got into behind that bar needed some sort of warning attached.

Speaking of which.

He found a notepad he'd been using to categorize things, and scrawled-

I think Miles drank something bad. He picked fight and broke his fingers. Untie to let him pee and fix him. Be careful because is extra bitchy.

He hefted up the smaller man like a potato sack. Guess he'd have a hell of a time explaining why he'd duct taped a guy if he crossed a CO along the way.

Gregor is on his way to the mess when he sees the large man and a smaller bundle in his arms. When he gets closer, it becomes clear that the bundle is alive, and at about five paces Gregor heaves a resigned sigh and puts himself squarely in their collective path.

"Excuse me," he says, extremely politely, his eyes flicking from Niko's face to his extremely irate foster-brother rather pathetic attempts at swearing. "You seem to have collected something for which I happen to be at least partially personally responsible. I don't suppose you'd mind returning him?"

He made no effort to hide the continuing irritable look on his face.

"This is yours, ah? Here you go." He put Miles down on the ground by Gregor's feet. He didn't make more of an effort to explain. After all, there was already a note there.

"Be careful." Which was all the explanation he offered as he walked off.

"Yes, thank you, but excuse me, why did you--? Of course." Gregor heaves a huge sigh as Niko walks away before he looks down at Miles, a hint of sourness pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, back to the cabin, I suppose," he says, sounding longsuffering, and stoops down to scoop Miles up, shifting him into a fireman's carry over Gregor's shoulder and ignoring the muffled howling coming from behind the blessed seal of the duct tape.

Miles' thudding little heart soars when he sees Gregor approach -- yes, yes, yes. Gregor will certainly take him out of Niko's custody and out of all this damn tape. And maybe to sickbay, too, to splint those broken fingers. They're starting to swell now, a little painfully.

Yes, good, he's gone, now cut me loose...

Except then Gregor just picks him up and hoists him over his shoulder without so much as a nod toward Miles' stripped dignity. If anything, he's peeled the last of it out of Miles with a paring knife. I trusted you, sire, Miles thinks mournfully, then, as he begins to thrash again, in impotent fury: I'm going to kill him.

"Stop that," Gregor says sharply as Miles starts to thrash again. "We have scissors in our cabin, I'm not peeling you out of all of this in the middle of a corridor. Just give me a minute, for god's sake."

Gregor keys their door open and tips Miles gently onto his bed before rooting around in the medical supplies, muttering softly.

Would it kill you to ungag me first? Miles screams silently, wriggling furiously on the bed. He musters an impressive glower for a man so thoroughly robbed of his dignity, his face red from the effort of forcing sound through the duct tape barrier. Maybe if Gregor untaped his face, he'd have a shot at eating that note before Gregor even saw it. As if Miles needs to suffer any further humiliation. Miles kicks at the wall in frustration, squeezing his eyes shut. Two things, he thinks, two things he's going to do once his hands are free. One, he's going to get these broken fingers splinted, and two, he's going to use his good hand to sock Gregor in the jaw.

Gregor is getting the intense feeling that ungagging Miles first would be a terrible idea. He returns with a pair of medical shears and a gentle hand on Miles' shoulder, strangling his irritation as best he can.

"Stop that," he says calmly, setting the scissors down and taking Miles' face carefully between long, cool hands, frowning in concentration before he peels the duct tape off as gently as possible. He smooths his thumbs down Miles' cheeks when he's done and starts in on cutting the tape without slicing through any of Miles' clothing, one hand pressing him still while the other works the scissors. "Stay still, please. I don't want to hurt you by accident."

Miles obeys that command, but only just barely. No longer struggling viciously to break free, he now squirms in restless impatience, his expression still irritable and stormy. "Oh, yes," he snaps out as soon as he can get a word in edgewise. "Niko already has that covered neatly. Will you cut my hands loose and get me out of this frigging thing? Broken fingers hurt, you know."

The second his hands are free, Miles snatches at the note to tear it away in some wild notion that maybe if he destroyed the thing first, it'd destroy any curiosity Gregor might have about its contents. Unless he's already seen it, in which case Miles' dignity may never recover. Either way, he has to try. Of course, in his muddled frenzy he makes a grab with his bad hand and succeeds only in dropping it. He lets out a short stream of some of his favorite swear words. At least he's ungagged now.

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