thisavrou_log | ( 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

Hey, Miller smiled! Cool. He'd wondered if the world had beaten it out of him, good to see that it hadn't entirely. He continues the light-hearted quipping.

"While naked back-handing might be fun in some consensual contexts, naked back-handing in front of an audience is, like, one level of kink too high for me."

Deacon has no scars, despite his extensive list of injuries over the years. He gets that surgically taken care of ever time he gets his face changed. No identifiable marks. He only wishes there were some way of permanently changing his hair color, too. His ginger stubble drives him crazy but dyes aren't easily available in the wasteland. But, hey, that's what razors and wigs are for.

He notices Miller looking. It's human nature to want to look, to compare, to assess. Miller's probably looking to see if he's got some Frankenstein bolts sticking out of him somewhere, evidence of his supposedly synthetic nature. But Deacon reckons that this basically gives him permission to look at Miller, a subtle up and down from his peripheral vision.

Christ, Miller looks like someone held him down and took a ripper to his limbs. There's no amount of stimpaks or surgery that could repair that. The prosthetics are pretty damn impressive, though, far better than anyone in the Commonwealth, save perhaps the Institute, could ever come up with. It's a shame they use their powers for evil.

Miller hadn't seen the list of injuries, but did notice the lack of marks. He was a man used to scars, seeing even the most well put-together soldier without scars was unlikely. And for a wastelander, seemed pretty odd with the stories Deacon told of his environment.

Funny then that it just seemed like confirmation of his story. He should have known better- he knew how good plastic surgery could be. Had seen it carved into another man's face. Believed it. But it didn't occur to him. Who expects their friends to be surgically altered for devious reasons?

Especially twice?

Miller led a pretty strange life. He really should have expected it. "I don't think this is the appropriate time for me to comment on the first bit." One of his hands was see-through to some extent, after all. So it meant he only had one to cover himself up with in case of emergency. "I'll reserve any hitting for people I don't like too well. Don't guess anyone is in much of a position to provoke anyone... except for the people that never wear clothes."

Then god help him, he meant the robots and the dragons but actually thought of Quiet. If anyone could directly put him out of the mood, it was letting his thoughts stray to her. Even if plenty of men would disagree.

Miller's right. This is definitely the wrong time to talk about (or lie about) kinks they may or may not have tried. He envies the people on board who don't wear clothes as a matter of course. No awkwardness, no fuss, no creeping feelings of vulnerability, no pining for sunglasses.

"It'd be great to be a unicorn right now." He's still not over seeing a unicorn on the network once.

"...Wow, I think I just lost, like, a hundred masculinity points right there. If anyone asks, tell them that I said 'dragon' or 'awesome giant death robot' or 'badass alien' or something."

"The unicorn seemed nice. I've been a little hit or miss with the giant death robots. So far about 50/50, depending on whether humans made them or not."

His real hand went back to holding his prosthetic out of habit, and he made a "so so" motion with the artificial one.

"So, I've gotta ask, are the human made ones the good ones or the bad ones?"

Deacon crosses his arms over his chest, which doesn't cover anything important, but it makes him feel a bit better all the same. Sure, it's a posture of insecurity, but he doesn't care. He's publicly naked, he's allowed to look a little insecure. And it's a hell of a lot more subtle than covering his eyes with one hand and his genitals with the other, like a really terrible "see no evil, bone no evil" statue.

"Remember the mobile nuclear launch systems?"

He gave Deacon a nod. Yeah. That. The manmade ones were worse by far.

"...It's the glasses, isn't it." He asked as he looked over him. "The worst part, about the clothes they took. I thought it would be everything else. But the sunglasses." They were kind of the last straw.

"It's somehow not surprising that the man made ones are the problem children." He sighs. "Sucks for me." Cryptic to anyone else who might be listening (although no one else is particularly close by), but he's told Miller that he's a man made android so he has context no one else has.

"Yeah, I'm never without my shades. My face feels weird without them, you know? I keep wanting to push them back into place because there's too much light coming in, and end up just jabbing myself in the eye instead."

With the sunglasses off, there's too much that shows--like how his eyes never really stop moving, watching for threats even when there are none around, or how his eyebrows and eyelashes under the frames are ginger and don't match his black wig.

"I've worn mine for... a long time now. Two decades, I think. But around the time I lost my arm and leg, my eyes were damaged, too. I became photosensitive. The Med Bay fixed my eyes to some extent but... the light still hurts."

Not to mention people could see what he was thinking. Or the fact he was sad. Or how if the right person payed attention to him, he could look like the most intolerable blonde puppy dog. Even at his age.

Miller took the red eyebrows as another sign of artificial nature.

"As for being man-made. Well. A lot of things are our fault. Don't worry about it."

"Big ass sunglasses: the top fashion choice for the discerning gentleman. But, nah, I hear you. Bright light gets to me too. Not for the same reasons, of course."

Without the shades, Miller looks less intimidating, more like someone who's had the world ripped out from under him and is still trying to find his footing.

"You and me should get drinks sometime. Compare sunglasses preferences, rate the hotness of different sniper rifles, do some knitting... Maybe not the knitting."

"No one should handle knitting needles with alcohol in their system, I don't think. But sure. I wouldn't mind getting a drink. To be honest, it's been a while since I went somewhere and sat down and drank with someone."

When it wasn't a complete wash of self-pity, that is. Like he did the night Big Boss showed up.

"Awesome. Later, when we're not naked, let's totally do it."

He scuffs his bare heel on the floor.

( april event log )

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