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!

E
V
E
N
T

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

There's a greedy, desperate light in their eyes, and the hand with the knife is swinging dangerously as they sprint, but none of that matters: he means salvation. Even the presence of the blasters doesn't distract them. They lunge for his hand with their own empty one.

It's too sudden to stop running on a dime, and if Sans doesn't do something then he might find himself yanked along.

For a few moments, that's exactly what happens. Stumbling after the kid, with a roar of pained prisoners behind them, it takes Sans a few more moments than usual to do the mental math required to get them a speedy exit out of here.

Normally he'd ask permission, but time is of the essence. Especially when the newly angered creatures are hot on their tailbone.

Fingers closing tightly around Chara's hand, the very next moment they aren't running down a long Del Pascia hallway but rather--

--the cargo bay? Blessedly, this time, Sans spawns them on the ground and not several feet above it.

"Kid, you--" He lets go, momentum still carrying him a few more feet before he hunches over, thoroughly winded. Even that much running was too much for him, not to mention using one of his blasters. It's enough to make a guy want to take a nap. "You're good now, it's good."

"Good?!" It's like coming into a landing, except Chara is still bursting with the adrenaline, and not just a little fear. "Good, we barely made it out of there! What took you so long?! Were you just--"

They cut off, and it's almost in time to stop the way their voice breaks. There's nothing to fear on this ship. Chara paces like a tiger in a cage, right down to not walking very far away from him. Do they feel caged? They're triple-scanning the crates around them, and seem incapable of stopping. "Were you just napping?!" they finish, throwing a glance.

Their voice sounds too high and thin, and Chara wants to kick him for looking exhausted. Would he survive the hit? Probably not. Their throat closes, and they can barely draw air. Chara spins again, this time throwing their knife as hard as they can. It bounces off a far crate, flying at an angle and disappearing behind toolboxes. Now Chara wants to kick a toolbox and Sans. Life isn't fair.

Edited 2016-04-28 20:45 (UTC)

The anger, at least, is coming from an identifiable source this time. That pacing, the way their muscles seem to be vibrating just under the skin, the thump in their chest that Sans can practically hear -- the kid is keyed up, and Sans can't really blame 'em.

"You were handling 'em pretty well for a bit there." Sans offers, still out of breath himself. A compliment, that's probably the best way to dress up his inaction. The clang of the knife making contact makes him wince on instinct, and he's grateful Chara appears to be too caught up in their own world to notice.

"Can I offer you some free advice? Take a few deep breaths, I mean really deep. See how deep you can go. Spelunk..." Another deep breath from Sans, wheezy. "Spelunk your lungs."

"Shut up, Sans!"

They round on him, but he's a wheezy, weak target. For an instant Chara sees themself punching him anyway, then kicking his dust all over their uniform and the cargo bay, but then they're back on the ship, gritting their teeth and throat too tight for air.

"Just shut up!" The words force past their throat, and they whirl back to pacing. If they have to breath deeper to pace--it's nothing to do with him. They're just breathing. Their fists are clenched from anger, not from trembling.

"If you think that was me 'handling things well', then no wonder you let Papyrus get stabbed!"

The statement penetrates through Sans like the blow it's meant to be, though you wouldn't know it to look at him. He shrugs, smile firmly in place, if a little more firmly cemented than before. Intent. A demonstration of how he refuses to be taken in by this tantrum.

No matter what memories it resurfaces, or how painful they might be. They're just memories now. He's got plenty of those.

"If you're trying to get me to yell at you, you're gonna have to knock on a different door. We already covered how useless I am at protecting people, remember?" Sans cocks his head to the side, blinking at Chara lazily. "If anything, it sounds like you should be grading me on a curve by now."

He's bowled them over on a level they don't even understand, and they shoot him a glare, moving on momentum alone. Of course he'd shrug them off. What else did they expect from him, something responsible? Something that wasn't lazy, slug-like, apathetic, careless, and all kinds of criminally uncaring things--

--yes, they'd hoped he'd engage.

"It's just like you not to care, isn't it?" Maybe if they try harder... then what? Maybe he'll leave so that Chara won't have to be the one running? "P-people depended on you."

They can't even put their heart into this. Their lower lip starts to tremble, and they seize it between their teeth, but their eyes are burning, and they've already lost. They don't want him to see this. Chara can barely stand that they needed him to rescue them, and to cry would be more than they can take.

"Y'know. That's the funny thing about being a grown-up, kiddo. I've been around a lot longer than you." There's a moment, a flicker, where it looks like Sans' eyes might go out. They don't. "You really don't know me at all."

There's a beat of quiet, but it's Sans that pushes past it.

"To be fair, I don't know you very well, either."

"Y-You don't."

They don't know each other. Neither of them can judge. He's deflecting them, but firing no hits back. Chara's willing to howl an entire fresh tirade, but they're so, so exhausted from their capture and escape, and they're sagging like a tire losing air. They want to sit down on the spot and bawl. They want Toriel. They want Frisk. They want a blanket, and a quiet corner to shake in for hours, and...

Chara turns abruptly away from him, chin crumpling. Where's the door? They can barely see through their fringe and blurred eyes, but it's hard to miss.

As Chara turns, Sans allows his mask of permanent complacency to fall into something more honest: concern. They're crying.

Sans didn't know demons could cry.

Taking a step forward, Sans allows himself to give into instinct. Monsters are ruled by compassion above all else, and the tug of it is hard to ignore, even towards something that Sans once vowed to never, ever forgive. One that he still wasn't sure he could forgive.

But helping a kid warm up, that's hardly forgiveness, is it?

Shucking off his coat, Sans forces himself to keep walking.

"Well, since we both don't know each other very well, you probably also don't know about my jacket. Can't blame ya, it's a pretty clothes-ly guarded secret." Stopping a few feet from Chara, he lays the coat on the ground, stepping backwards again. "It's magic."

Edited 2016-05-03 23:28 (UTC)

The joke takes them by surprise. They choke, shoulders shaking silently, and for a second the wailing exhaustion in them quiets. He could run them through right at that moment, and they'd die chortling and tear-streaked. They loved stupid jokes like that.

But they don't like him. They can't stand it; the energy in them for hate is tapped dry, and their back is prickling with memories of impalements, and even if he's done nothing but dump some harmless cloth on the floor, Chara can't stay. How much would their voice wobble if they tried to tell him off? Too much. The relief is ebbing. The shock of everything is settling in.

They burst into a run without a word back to him. Maybe they should've stomped on his jacket, but they can't--can't. They'll do it next time, or maybe anything else that's mean to get back at him for not leaving the instant they fell apart.

Not now, though. They don't know where they're going, but it's going to be safe, it's going to have blankets, and it's going to be private.

It's not hard to see that Chara's energy is bubbling like a bottle of soda fresh from a tumble drier, fit to explode at any moment. In what way, Sans isn't sure.

So he continues.

"Y'see, when you put that coat on, it instantly teleports you to a land of untold comfort. When Pap was little, he called it Hoodietown, n' if that doesn't sound like a rad place to be I dunno what does. You just put it on, zip it up, n' pull the hood over you and--augh, kid, wait!"

They don't turn around, and Sans gives up the chase two steps in. His jacket lays on the ground, right where he left it.

"... Damnit."

Edited 2016-05-04 03:26 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( april event log )

no subject

1/2

2/2

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject