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deep in the murk
"It comes first and follows after. Ends life, kills laughter."
With the outcome of the battle against the Caducans and the Moira having twisted together with their ship to form a strange combination of glass, metal, and organic parts (both across the ship and among the crewmembers), there is still the matter of the Ingress not functioning “properly”. It hasn’t worked correctly since the very first person arrived on the Moira through it, and there is little the Captains themselves know about its functions. However, now, more than before, it’s even worse than that. The Ingress malfunctions yet again. This time, though, it doesn’t simply combine time and space and objects around it—it encompasses the entirety of the ship and sends it far off into a completely different universe. Welcome to:
( click text for a rough map/layout )This puts the Moira closer to its final destination, and most of the glass has disappeared as the Caducan ship has been left behind aside from small things here and there (i.e., some of the walls in the corridors, random furniture in the rooming decks, the rooms themselves). Even the mess hall has permanently changed. Yet, there is some bad news that comes with this transition. The universe the ship is in is so terrible that it has been given its own name so that travelers avoid it altogether. Even the Captains themselves are aware of just how Bad News this universe is and had originally planned to take “the long way around” to avoid it. Anything shady or unsavory can be found in the Runoff, and while it might not appeal to the majority, it is simply second-nature to those who inhabit it. From arms trafficking to drugs, whatever one might think is illegal somewhere else is suddenly very legal and very dangerous.
Through the transition, some of the crew will accidentally end up on a nearby outpost specifically used for slave trade. It is a covered, temporary establishment used only for this purpose, meaning there are no open markets, hotels, or businesses of any sort. Stalls and tents line dirty streets, and ships litter the space around the outpost. This is a slave trade zone. People come and go but do not stay. Various lifeforms can be found here, and there are many different forms of slave trade happening. The motto “honor among thieves” does not exist in this place either. Crew who end up here will be “free”; however, this means that there is the potential to be taken and sold or kept by those of the Runoff. The Moira will not be close to this outpost, but the signals given from their MIDs will alert the crew to their location. Rescue, obviously, is imminent, but those who choose to help their fellow crewmembers must keep to small stealth missions using transporters or other crafts with one important detail in mind: they cannot bring attention or notice to the Moira itself.
Almost one-third of the crew has found themselves on the slave trade outpost, leaving the rest to plan for rescue. The Captains will immediately divulge all information that they have about the outpost, which is unfortunately very little outside of the stigma associated with the Runoff. The Captains will ask any MID techs or those with skills to create a program that allows person to person location; this function will allow crewmembers to search for those on the outpost via their MIDs. Rescue efforts are encouraged, and all the ships and transporters in the cargo bay will be available for public use. Crew will be told to be careful and quiet, bringing no attention to the Moira’s location, and most importantly, do not stand out. If crew look and act like they don’t belong there, others will notice. Stealth is the name of the game, and blending in is a necessity. ☄ time goes by slowly The unfortunate crewmembers who ended up on the outpost have now found themselves pursued by those looking to make a profit through slave trade. The standards of hard labor vary from owner to owner, but it is what it sounds like. Rough, hard work that will last as long as the body performing it can endure. If purchased, owners might examine their new property to determine what type of work they’d be best suited for and then split them up into holding areas until they are done with their purchases. Others might have their slaves begin work by cleaning their ship or holding stalls or packing up their tents and gear. The owners, and their needs, are as varied as the universe. Did you manage to escape? Or were you forced to work before you were rescued? ☄ and it seems to last forever Like the crewmembers taken by general labor owners, the murdersport slavers buy and take whomever they believe can last the longest in the pit. Some take those who appear to be strong or have great stamina, and some take those who are light on their feet or are quick-witted. Some crew are chosen simply based on appearance and how good they’ll look in their gear. If pursued, the slavers will do everything they can to capture the Moirans, and if captured, crew might be taken to a holding stall or a testing pit so that their skills can be witnessed by the public and tested. Some slavers want to show off their new property by throwing them into small roped off areas with other slaves, various creatures, or machines. Some make them stand up in front of groups and simply show them off, boasting that, at the next big event in the Runoff, they’ll surely win the grand prize. What kind of slaver has taken you? Will you be forced to fight before you rescue? Or will you not make it to the Moira before the Ingress pulls you back? ☄ but then it starts to fly ( cw: sex ) As is typical of this universe, slave trade comes in various forms. The most notorious being its illustrious sex trade. Slaves are bought and sold quickly and often, with no notable preference for appearance or species. Buyers come from all over to find slaves to work in their brothels, for personal use, as in-house entertainment, and much more. While the other two most popular type of slave trade don’t care as much about the physical well being of their property, these specific owners usually do. They might try to incapacitate first, so that the slaves aren’t bruised or cut, and if necessary, use binds until they can get them back to their ships or holding stalls. Some owners have their slaves cleaned and dressed in the finest attire, while others shove them into uniforms and tossed into stalls. Were you captured? Did you escape? Or were you rescued before something untoward occurred? What's more, events of the past always have a way of coming back to haunt you.
Months past, a monster terrorized the crew and left a very literal mark upon those that it touched. Those scarred by encounters with the Ploiatos will find their minds drifting as they work and go about their day. They may also find themselves in a different part of the ship than intended when they come back to themselves. It happens slowly, these small moments of lost time. But both before and after these events occur, one might notice that the scars seem to shift slightly. Where the patterns have been stable for months, suddenly the branching arms of the scars appear to be in a slightly different position than before. More often than not, those who lose time will regain awareness and find themselves in Navigation. When this happens, oftentimes Captain Manasseh will herd them out with a quiet, but undeniably firm, suggestion to visit the infirmary. More unsettling are the moments when they awaken in the I.L.R. standing outside the one door that should never be opened. As for those who were lucky enough to avoid encounters with the creature locked within, they must figure out how to deal with their friends and fellow crew who seem to walk around in a fog with no control of their actions.
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hownkai) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-07-19 01:11 am
no subject
Anyone in this position should be angry.]
We wait. [He looks like he's going to make himself sick even thinking it, let alone uttering it aloud.] Fighting back now is going to get us and everyone else killed.
[There's a moment for everything. There has to be. That's what the whole point of teaching him patience was, right?
By measure, his gaze back is significantly softer, even if it is tinged with a scowl and a tense pull in his shoulders that together speak of nothing but bristling discomfort.]
Did they chip you?
[It doesn't seem common practice out here--one small, seemingly insignificant grace--but it will always be the first thing he asks. It has to be.]
no subject
Besides, a moment later, her brows are drawing together at the word chip. There's a bitter, sickly taste in the back of her mouth.]
I don't know.
[She was unconscious before--she knows that much--and knowing just how small a chip can come, searching for a telltale scar might be futile.]
Have you seen people being chipped?
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[Swallow it back. There's no point in ruminating on the past now, no matter how similiar and sickening it might be. The taste of it is bitter.]
That doesn't mean anything. It's... [Oh, that futile hope. It was a nice try.] It's common enough back home. But you'd know, they'd...
[He can't help but choke on the memory of it; watching that sort of explosion isn't something anyone forgets. It's a scar that never quite heals over, one that leaves a child sneaking into his mother's room at night to sob over the right of it.
Anakin shakes his head. Enough.]
They would make sure you knew.
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For a moment, she feels a sort of pity for him--one she swiftly replaces with thoughts of Chewie. Look what happened to the Wookiees while a former slave was among the emperor's closest confidants. Look what happened to the galaxy.
Even if that isn't yet Anakin's fault, the thought of it burns in her throat.]
They haven't seen fit to make sure we know anything here.
[Not questioning him exactly. The frustration has to go somewhere.]
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[The words come out like sandpaper over gravel, all harsh and raked over and painful. He doesn't think about how it sounds or how much he should temper it. Slaver scum don't deserve the courtesy of softened words even secondhand.
Some day, he'll come to realize the tragic irony in that thought.
The fact that this is so up in the air, questionable and sudden makes him believe the answer is no. He knows what that feels like, the sick dread attached to the movement of a dormant grenade moving about through the bloodstream, just waiting g for the right moment, and that one wrong mistake.
The relief is thankless.]
This is rushed. We look like easy money.
[Too sudden and poorly planned; these slavers take minimal precaution, in comparison anyway, to protect their "stock". They're reckless. He can work with this.
Hopefully.]
We can use that.
[I think.]
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[It's growing strangely comfortable, talking to him like this: they're so focused on the situation that there's little room for courtesy, let alone the knowledge that they're father and daughter. She's starting to be able to let herself be worried that her ally sounds like he's having trouble without thinking about how that connects to who he is and who he'll become.
Later, she'll wonder if the facts of the situation--that they've been stripped of autonomy and persona ownership--helped them slip past the problem of who they are. If things work that quickly: if they feel, on some level, they aren't anyone when they're trapped in a stall, waiting to be sold to the highest bidder.
The thought will make her nauseous.]
Because as far as I can tell, we are easy money until the ship gets here.
no subject
Are we? Money might change hands; that doesn't have to mean anyone is getting what they pay for.
[He pauses and glances around nervously; everything is clouded here. The pain is loud, his own upset near-blinding. Is it really any wonder that the Council hadn't trusted a boy with scars like this? How does anyone swallow this and move on? How can he ask anyone to go along with any part of it?
...And how can he do that again?]
It's too dangerous here. Too many people. Too many Whips. [And we don't know when the ship is getting here.
If the ship is getting here.] Get one alone and a lot of things can look like an accident.no subject
[Her voice is cold, solid steel. She woke groggy and disoriented in her cuffs, but she heard enough to know what it is they want to sell her for. They'll have to do more than clamp metal around her wrists if they want her to play along with their plans.
If only her thoughts didn't stray so easily to what more could be.
Focus, she tells herself. He's not wrong--about this, anyway.]
Have you reached anyone on the MID?
no subject
Good. Don't let them t--
[No. He cuts himself off, the qualification a dangerous one if he finishes it. If he digs into that horrible assumption, what they want with a girl barely older than him who clearly isn't meant for menial labor? Well. He knows what the Hutts do. And if that's the case everyone here is dead, kriff every warning of reservation he's giving and trying to take all at the same time. The awful logic in it rankles. He can only affirm her stated refusal, when the apology that goes along with it is a piteous sort neither of them need right now.
The anger is there, plain and if rage were ever tinged visibly with a homcidal lining, its there too in how tensely he suddenly holds himself at the insinuation, the sneer that follows, and the slow close of his eyes when he has to push it aside.
It's difficult to abate that feeling when it's already consuming. But better logic reminds that all this will do is prove her right, prove that future right, and how is that helping anyone here, now? With a thick swallow against that sour taste in his throat, the sneer fades, and his shoulders drop a visible fraction.
Instead, in favor of a plain response in their cramped space, he holds his hands up, bound by a pair of electric-based binders. In the long line of failures that have led to this moment, this is the easiest to accept. (And likely the hardest to argue).]
Unfortunately, they're a little smarter than droids.
[His opinion of them, however, is far, far lower. A machine can be reworked. There's no helping this. And may the Force help them for what they might try.]
Have you seen anyone else?
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[If her arms weren't cuffed, they might be wrapped around herself--but then again, maybe not, when every weakness they show could be used against them. Still, her voice--quiet enough that she hopes no one will overhear--has a ragged edge to it, one that warns they're coming close to a place she can't go without breaking off entirely.]
Obi-Wan. [He's the only one besides Anakin so far.] That was...[before one slaver traded me to another slaver like they were dealing in collectibles and thought I'd fit better in his collection.]...a while ago.
no subject
Likely, it's a mutually visible line of thinking when she brings Obi-Wan up. His eyes go wide at first before they narrow in line with his bristling anger at how much worse this gets all the time. She must not have been able to reach anyone else either. But does that work just back to the ship, or here, or--
One thing at a time, Anakin. Which brings him right back to the upset that isn't his.]
You can go back to hating me when this is over. They don't get to change who you are. And none of this, whatever happens, is your fault.
They will pay for this.
[If you believe nothing else I ever say, please make this the last. Maybe he had failed his mother. He's not making that mistake again.]
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(If it's her fault, that means this situation isn't beyond her control.)
No one else, in her mind, should be blamed for their presence in this bantha pen of a holding station. But Leia burns with an unreasonable anger that she couldn't escape this fate and thus helped everyone else trapped here.]
We're getting out of here. [It's full of certainty she doesn't feel. The alternative is too ugly to contemplate.] Everyone's getting back to the Moira.
[Until then, we truce. It's obvious, she assumes, from the fact that she's talking to him at all.]
no subject
None of this is right, none of it is Just, and that's precisely what his job has always been. Putting things to rights.
Whatever future remains distantly on the horizon, looming with an encroaching, inherent darkness, fixing this is the right thing to do, regardless of however long this tense and tentative truce (oh, he notices) holds. It's this, or nothing at all.
And doing nothing has already had a hand in this mess. And the mess before it. And so-on.]
Yes, we are.
[Even if he has to die, trying. If he can't go back to Tatooine with all those lofty goals of throwing a wrench in the slave trade and teaching the Hutts what its like to actually work for a living, this will have to be the next best thing.
There's no one else coming, this time. No Republic with even a minor pretense of sympathy to be won over. If it's to be martyrdom, the timing has to be precise. It has to feel right.]
And these scum are going down when we do.
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We can't leave these people here.
[Not the slavers, and not their captives. If the Moira knows they're here, she and Anakin--and all the rest of their crew--have a way out. But they're only a tiny fraction of the bodies on display, and if they leave without doing anything for any of them...
Unless it's absolutely necessary, Leia doesn't want that on her conscience.]
The captains will have to see reason. [Even if it's hard to imagine it.]
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[Awkward.
His heart skips a beat in that silence that tells him that was not the right place to that that, and finally shakes his head with an averted glance. He can imagine the anger clearly enough, he doesn't need to see it.]
They will. [After all, who says no to that? After picking up wayward refugee one after another, who could turn this down? (But even he can picture all of the sideways glances and excuses pretty clearly.)]
But we need to get out of here first. Intact.
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She grits her teeth. Focus on the rest of what he said. They don't have time to argue.]
If you have any suggestions for these gauntlets, I'm listening.
[Without her hands, she's much less likely to be able to do anything to free herself.]
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I don't suppose you still have a pin hidden in all that hair?
[There's still the lightsaber, hidden safely away, but it's not just dangerous and far too flashy when they're packed in like this, but unwieldy too when only one of his hands wants to work properly. Trying to pick the lock seems a safer bet.]
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Well. That's a different story.
As surreptitiously as she can, aware that even in a crowd of slaves, they aren't invisible, she reaches up to itch at her scalp. As she does, she slides a long hairpin out between two fingers.]
Here.
[Leia pushes it into Anakin's hands, eyes darting around for some indication that they've been caught.]
no subject
It's been a long time since he's had to do this manually, but with enough finagling (and maybe a little cheating), the mechanism clicks, and the lock pops.]
You're welcome.
no subject
Give me your hands.
[The least she can do is return the favour. There's no reason they shouldn't both escape, now that her hands are free.]