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.

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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.

"You know that shit will kill you. Actually, I don't know that; I don't know a damn thing about it, but that's what people are supposed to say, right?"

He tilted his head and spread his hands apart, like the example he was about to give was a physical thing he can hold.

"I'm sure you've heard it." His voice turned half-mocking. "'...shit will kill you...ruin your life...something about self-respect...yadda yadda yadda.'"

"Every kriffing word of it," she replied dully. She appreciated that he'd cut himself off. Because if she had to hear it again, she'd be ill.

Or possibly violent.

Maybe even both.

With a shrug, she twisted a piece of hair around her fingers. "We're all gonna die eventually. Truth is that rankweed is probably prolonging my life. Or else I might have taken a blaster to my brain years ago."

"Fair enough. I've known a lot of people who felt that way."

It was never Deacon's reason. Of all his problems, death wish has never been one of them. But it was common enough to see in the wasteland.

"So what's your story?"

She let out a short laugh. "If you're looking for entertainment, I'd much rather dance for you," she replied. She paused. "Although it would be a pretty short show, given the fact that my work clothes are currently elsewhere."

Maya stretched out one of her long legs, pointing her toes like a dancer.

And she carefully started to probe Deacon's mind. There had to be a reason why he was suddenly interested in her life story. Maya refused to believe in idle curiosity.

"You could just stand up, take a bow, call it done, and sit back down again."

Deacon didn't notice the mental intrusion. There really was a great deal of idle curiosity there in his mind. His job back home was to gather information on anything and anyone and report back to HQ. There was no one to report to on Moira, but the habits of decades didn't go away easily. He was always interested in people, in their stories. You never knew when even the gossip of an unassuming scavver might hold useful intel. So he'd always talked to everybody, and listened.

But underneath that are old, old memories of shooting up on a dirty mattress in a leaky shack, because he felt powerless and angry in an unfair and dangerous world and the drug made him feel powerful while the high lasted and made it easier for him to put violent action to the anger and give it expression.

Maya hadn't meant to delve that far into his mind. But she was untrained and untested. And, frankly, unapologetic. There wasn't enough time or energy in the galaxy--any galaxy--for shame.

Just a shrug.

"Too much effort," she said, twisting a piece of hair so tight around the tip of her finger that it turned white.

It was actually sort of nice to meet a kindred spirit, of sorts. She'd met a surprisingly large contingent of prisoners with her mental disability. Not as many who knew a kriffing thing about addiction. At least he knew what he was talking about.

"What was your drug of choice?"

His eyes widened before he could stop himself, before he could remind himself that he wasn't wearing his sunglasses to hide it. He wondered how she knew. Maybe she recognized something in his voice like he recognized something in hers.

"Med-X," the lie came quickly. Med-X was an almost respectable drug; it was a drug with respectable, practical uses, with the downside of being habit-forming. Not like the shit he'd been on. There's nothing respectable about Psycho. "It's a painkiller. Got into too many skirmishes as a caravan guard, dipped into the medicine kit too many times after getting shot in the leg or a baseball bat to the chest..."

Nothing about that story was true, but it was a nicer story than the truth so he'll try to pass it off as truth.

He was lying. But that was fine with Maya. It wasn't really her business. Even if she was beginning to feel intensely curious about this unusual stranger.

Once upon a time, she might have been tempted to sink her hooks into his mind, force him to tell her the truth. If only because she could. But that kind of behavior would get her in more trouble here in on the Moira than it ever could have on Corellia.

Too many other people who shared her disability. Someone would find out.

So she shrugged. "Never heard of it."

"It can be pretty useful, great in a medical emergency. But the addition's a bitch. Getting off that was seriously unfun."

He really wished he could have his sunglasses for this conversation. And clothes. Clothes would be nice. But he'd learned to take opportunities where they came.

Maya gave him a wry smile. "Try getting off of Gree spice," she said. "That'll knock you flat on your back for a few months. And not in the fun way."

It was possible she was exaggerating a little bit. But the process had definitely been rough on her. Not just the withdrawal, but the way that everyone's emotions felt like they'd been turned up as loud as possible.

Context had definitely been working against her in that.

"I will definitely not be trying that, thanks. I like my organs where they are. I don't want to spend months puking them up."

The hiss of gas stopped. Deacon looked up, relief mixed with nervous paranoia over what might come next.

"Hey, they've stopped maybe-poisoning us. Awesome."

She laughed. "Well, maybe it wasn't poison," she drawled. "Maybe it was just a highly flammable gas and now we're waiting for someone to light a match."

The paranoia ran deep with this one too.

"What's wrong? Not having fun in this makeshift sauna?"

"Oh man, you just had to say it. That's even worse than poison."

And...totally a possibility. Add that to the list of things to be nervous about.

"Saunas are so not my thing. I'm more of a sunbathing kind of guy." In truth, despite his love of sunglasses, he hated going out in daylight, visible and exposed, it freaked him out. But right now he'd rather be exposed than trapped in this can with who-knew-what in the air.

"Depends on the poison," she countered, playfully. "I'd rather be burned to a crisp than suffer certain types of lingering poison deaths. Although, all things considered, if I had to choose my own death, I would probably be quite happy with a good, old-fashioned death of old age. Just saying."

It didn't feel likely, at this point in her life.

But it was nice to dream.

"I dunno, old age sucks. Everything starts to hurt and your back gives out at inconvenient moments. I mean, I guess growing old is better than the alternative, but, man, there are just no good death options. None at all. Just worse and worser."

Deacon had put some thought into this a time or two, mentally preparing for whatever death came, expecting it at any day and somehow managing to continue to avoid it.

"Well, that settles it then," she said. "I guess we'll just have to agree not to die. We're opting out."

She turned her face up to the ceiling of the transport. There weren't any cameras apparent, but she was sure they were being watched. That they were always being watched.

"We're taking the no-death option."

"Yes! I like this option. This is the best option. You tell us to pick Door Number 1 or Door Number 2, well we choose Door Number *3*, sucker. Bet you never saw that coming."

It didn't matter who the "you" was. The ship captains who were probably watching them suck in the gas they pumped into the transport, hypothetical future enemies, fate...it was the sentiment that counted.

She laughed pleasantly at that. Although why anyone would ask her to choose between two doors was kind of beyond her. But that was probably just a difference in galaxies.

Wasn't the point.

The point was that he was right. You always made your own option. Otherwise, you were just playing someone else's game.

"Glad we're of one mind," she said dryly.

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( april event log )

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cw: drug use

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