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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

'Movie' was one of the many terms Maya had heard, casually thrown around the Moira. One of those things that she supposed everyone knew except for her. And she'd learned that it was usually best just to ignore such things.

"What you're getting is a bargain," she replied, stepping out of her boot before working on the other one. "I usually charge good money for this kind of show."

To drive the point home, she pulled her second leg out of the boot slowly and sumptuously, toes pointed like a proper dancer. She kicked the boot to the floor and popped her knee, showing off every centimeter of skin.

"Everyone loves a bargain."

From his peripheral vision he saw her leg slowly exposed. Yup, definitely a leg, a very bare leg. Hearing about her occupation made him feel vaguely like he'd be stealing money from her, in a very round about way, if he saw anything, so despite his words about loving a bargain, he turns his head away a few inches further as he unbuttons his shirt.

"I was an escort once." No he wasn't, he just pretended to be once as a cover. Totally different thing, since he never actually accepted any clients and it only lasted a week. A very strange and awkward week. But lying was just how he made conversation. "Not for long, just a few months. I sort of spent my life drifting from one occupation to another. I was a guard for a while too, and a courier, and a scavenger, and farmer... Nothing really sticks, you know? Work: it turns out I kinda suck at it."

Maya blinked in surprise. She hadn't exactly been expecting a conversation. Him looking away, she could accept. Her particular brand of showmanship wasn't for everyone.

But that he felt the need to chat was...

Well. It was kriffing weird. That's what it was.

Turning her back to him, she started to unlace her bodice. "So what do they have you doing here?"

"Oh, nothing exciting. They made me the ship's interior designer." He was actually a Stealth Operative. "Which would be kinda fun, but, funny thing, I'm colorblind. I hear monochrome is trendy these days, though, so I guess I'll be going with that."

He shrugged out of his shirt and put it in the bag, his wig as well, revealing the beginnings of ginger stubble underneath.

"What about you? If they had the same sense of humor with your on-board job as they did with me, I'm kinda expecting something like 'ship's nun.'"

"Nun?" she repeated, looking over her shoulder at him. "What the kriff is a nun?" Another one of those words she felt like she was supposed to know. She immediately scolded herself for even asking but...well. Too late now, she supposed.

Shaking her head, she turned back to face the wall, dropping her arms to let the bodice slide off of her.

"I'm an engine technician," she replied. Which was actually an appropriate job for her skills, if not her background.

Maya had always been good with machines.

He glances over his shoulder at her, surprised she hasn't heard of nuns, and, uh, that's a lot of skin happening. He quickly turns his eyes forward again.

"It's a religious thing. Nuns are women who barely show any skin at all, swear oaths of chastity, and sacrifice hearts to the sun god." That last phrase just kinda slips out. Oh well. The clothes and the chastity were the important bits.

She wrinkled her nose, slipping out of her skirt in one, smooth movement. "I'm not really one for religion. And I think sun gods are largely an outdated practice." And she liked to think human sacrifice was too, but she'd heard plenty of horror stories about some of the more remote planets in the Outer Rim. It wasn't a sure bet.

A pause. "And anyway, I'm not really sure the Moira would benefit from having a nun. Killing off the crew seems counter productive. Although I can think of a few who wouldn't be missed..."

"I hope I'm not one of them. I hate dodging bullets. You'd miss me, right? Even though we just met?"

Boots and pants go next.

"But you're right. We probably don't need a ship's nun. Engine technician sounds way more useful."

"Oh, I never shoot a man the first time," she replied dryly. Which was, of course, patently untrue. Given the right circumstances, Maya would shoot anyone in her way.

Fortunately, he seemed pretty harmless.

She grabbed one of the hazardous material bags, dropping her wrinkled clothing inside. After a moment's consideration, she took the band binding the braid in her hair out as well, letting that go too. As she turned to drop it into the bin, she caught sight of his legs and let out a wolf whistle.

"So, you save the firearms for the second date? Good to know."

He removed his sunglasses last, carefully, but let them drop into the bag a little less carefully than he'd intended, startled by the whistle.

"I thought we weren't looking. But, hey, nice to be appreciated."

"I never said anything about not looking," she replied breezily. Anyway, it was often that she got to be the gawker. The male body was, admittedly, nothing all that glorious. But it wasn't like Maya was about to start taking the whole situation seriously.

She was still somewhat convinced that it was an elaborate hoax.

As the hiss of the decontamination began, she sighed and sank down into her seat, crossing her legs and drumming her fingers impatiently against the arm.

"Well that's not fair."

Deacon remains standing, back against a wall, an instinctive response to feeling vulnerable and exposed, even though it's a different sort of exposed right now and no one's likely to stage an ambush in here.

He doesn't try so hard not to look any more, the informal non-agreement gone now. He'll just try to stay casual, just hanging around here naked with a naked woman he's barely met, yup. Thank God that he's older, wiser, less horny than he used to be. Twenty-five, thirty years ago, this would have gotten really awkward for him really quickly.

"Life's not fair," she replied. "If it were, I don't think either of us would be stuck here right now. Unless you're into indentured servitude, in which case, color me wrong."

She kept on drumming her fingers, her nails clicking against the metal and plastic, faster and faster.

It was the only outward sign of her irritation.

"But if we're going to talk like this, I'd sure love to have a name first."

"Yeah, not a fan of slavery in any form." But he's still having a hard time thinking of the Moira in that way, although he knows that others do. To him, it feels more like dying and going to heaven. A weird, not-entirely-awesome heaven, but paradise compared to where he came from. He misses his colleagues, regrets not completing his mission, but that's what it'd be like if he actually died anyway. But if other people feel enslaved, he won't contradict their experience and he'll do what he can to help them escape to freedom.

"My name's Deacon." No indication if it's a first or last name. "What about you?"

"Maya," she replied. "Maya Hannis."

It was a luxury for Maya to use her real name. She was relatively sure that he wasn't an Imperial spy. At this point, she'd started to give up on that particular paranoia.

And he wasn't a customer either.

"I'd tell you I'm from Corellia, but I doubt that would mean a kriffing thing to you," she added.

"Sorry, it doesn't. I could lie and say it does, though, if that'd make you feel better."

He crosses his arms over his chest.

"I'm from the Commonwealth, which probably means about as much to you as Corellia does to mean. Human species, homo sapiens sapiens." he adds, because around the Moira that's not a given.

She raised two fingers from the arm of her seat. "Human here too," she replied. Although she wasn't entirely sure what a sapien was.

It probably didn't matter that much.

The hiss of the odorless gas was starting to make her feel uncomfortable. She was pretty sure it wasn't some kind of toxin. She would have been able to tell by now. But she wasn't entirely comfortable inhaling some sort of mystery substance.

She had her drugs of choice and she liked them.

"What do you suppose they're pumping in here?"

"I don't know but I hope it's not nerve gas or I'm going to be really pissed. For about 15...maybe 30 seconds, and then I'll be dead, so, hey, at least I won't stay angry long."

But if it were poison, they'd be having some kind of reaction by now. That didn't mean that it wasn't drugged in some other way, but he wasn't losing consciousness or hallucinating fluffy pink bunnies, so it seemed okay so far.

"Inhaling unknown substances is totally not my scene, though."

"Then I won't offer you any rankweed later," she replied.

Already, she was dying for another smoke. Which wasn't good. She had to preserve her supplies. They were, it seemed, far, far away from her galaxy where it was readily available.

If they ran out of alcohol, she was jumping out an airlock.

"Rankweed? I don't think I've heard of that one."

He knows the chems of the wasteland, but if his short time on Moira has taught him one thing, it's that people all over the universe have found new and inventive ways of getting high.

"It's a pickled herb from home," she said absently. "You roll it up in paper and smoke it like tobacco."

Just thinking about it made her salivate a little bit. Of all the drugs she'd done in her life--and she'd pretty much done everything--it was one of the less offensive. Which was probably why she was so kriffing dependent.

"It's...nice."

"Does it have the same effect as tobacco?"

There were a lot of things that could be smoked, and Deacon had tried a lot of them in his dissolute youth, and knew personally that some of them could fuck you up a lot more and a lot faster than a cigarette ever could.

She made a face. "Ten times better than tobacco."

Actually, Maya had never cared for tobacco all that much. She would occasionally smoke it when she was trying ti please or impress a customer. But the scent was just disgusting. And it took forever to get out of her clothes.

"Rankweed is much more relaxing..."

Kriff, she needed one now.

"So...how long have you been addicted?" he asked casually. He recognized that kind of yearning.

It was a bit of an affront to be called out like that, but Maya couldn't deny it. She was an addict. And an alcoholic too. And the only thing that had really put aside either of those were her recent adventures, first with Kem, then on the run, trying to protect Yuri.

The longing never really went away. She just had to push it aside.

"Since I was fifteen, probably," she said with a shrug. And had she known about it before then, she doubtlessly would have become an addict much sooner. Anything to push away the constant strain of emotions trying to invade her mind.

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