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old but unfamiliar faces
"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once."
The Ingress has pulled you in. Your body experiences several sensations at once: being pushed forward as if a hand is resting on your back, momentary and startling blindness, a gentle ringing in your head. You have difficulty discerning whether it is hot or cold, but where you have been prodded is noticeably warmer than the rest of you. Some may suffer from dizziness while others are perfectly fine. Once equilibrium has been reestablished, you will notice you are standing on a long platform and that the room is filled with a soft cerulean light. It's slightly humid and dark despite the glow around you, and nothing is familiar. Shortly after, you are led out and toward the medbay.
Inside this room, you are given a physical scan and offered a contract to sign that states you are now part of the crew of the Moira with a specific job. Any questions you might have would be answered in a straightforward manner as well as an explanation about how the Ingress, the thing that has pulled you onto the Moira, is broken and bringing people here unintentionally. This process also consists of a complete work-up of medical history and current health, and afterwards, you are given your MID, a device that is integrated into your hand or wrist with only the slightest pinch. From there, you are guided out of the medbay and to your living quarters.
At first, this month seems no more unusual than the previous one for those who have been aboard the Moira for any amount of time. The crew who had landed on the slaver outpost were rescued, and with everyone aboard, the ship has pushed forward into the darker parts of the Runoff. Anyone arriving through the Ingress follows the same routine—moving from the Ingress room into the Medbay for their physical and contract before being assisted by seasoned crew members and helped to their assigned decks. But all familiar things must eventually come to an end: two final travelers come through the Ingress. The first, and most noticeable difference between them and all the others, is their clothing. Both are dressed in standard Moira uniforms, though they bear the insignia of one sharing the same rank as Captains Cúrre and Thán. After a moment to take in all the people on the platform ahead of them, one of the two latest arrivals approaches one of the Ingress panels and begins to manipulate the controls. The Ingress completely shuts down. Unlike before, however, there isn’t an imbalance felt across the ship; everything remains normal and stable.
Utilizing the computer systems located in the Ingress room, they send out the following message to the crew via the MID:To all those aboard this vessel: I am Ira Phirun, assigned captain of the Moira. First Mate Egan and I will be commandeering all rights to the ship as soon as word is sent to those currently in charge. Expect a more detailed report as soon as all records and logs in Navigation have been reviewed by myself and the First Mate. All questions will be answered in a timely matter. For now, there will be no interruption of daily routine or reprimand if conduct among ranks is broken. Thanks for your time. Heading to Navigation, the Captain and First Mate, for seemingly unknown reasons, approach Navigator Manasseh and have her show them all records and logs of the Moira. Those working in Navigation when the Captain and First Mate arrive will see Mana greet them in a professional manner. Oddly, the Captain and First Mate act very familiar with the Navigator. They review all documents, but when they come upon news that the Ploiatos is on board, their mostly friendly demeanor shifts quickly. The Captain issues a sharp order, unintelligible to those who are close enough to overhear parts of their conversation, and without any warning at all, Mana loses consciousness and collapses right there on the bridge. Within minutes of this happening, the ship as a whole falls into a low power state with basic functions only. Mana’s MID alerts Medbay, and without hesitation, Captain Cúrre places her in cryo with strict orders to those who work there not to disturb the unit.
As promised, the Captain and First Mate soon address the crew.☄ lights down low The lighting has dimmed in all the rooms and halls, the normally crisp air that is pumped from the vents low, and all machines and tech are running at half-speed. These effects can be found throughout the ship. Water in the showers remain hot for only a few minutes before reverting to cold. Recreational equipment powers off not long after it has been turned on. The sanitation and water filtration systems require an hourly manual reboot, and all unused areas of the ship have no power allotted to them until a crew member steps inside. Even then, most functions are not optimal. It’s as if the Moira has been transformed into a dark house with only a candle flickering on the window sill. ☄ reuse & recycle The Captain and First Mate are quick to establish that this is a new regime and go about making the ship and its crew more efficient in the wake of their change in course and the low power state of the ship itself. This means they will systematically inspect each occupied barracks room and leave notes for what needs to be disposed of or stowed away. Unlike before, this is no longer a pleasure cruise, and each member of the crew is a guest on board; they will not tolerate useless clutter. Anything seen as unnecessary will be either placed into storage in the Cargo Bay or disposed of through the airlock. This new need for efficiency also extends to the need to conserve resources until they reach their destination. The showers are set to an automatic timer to minimize water waste. Those few minutes of hot water are all a crew member is now given. Meals are smaller, bordering on ration sizes, and luxuries are done away with entirely in order to preserve supplies so that the ship can go longer before needing to dock at a planet. ☄ new jobs, same faces The Captain and his First Mate, as expressed in their addressing of the Moira, explain that work efficiency is a priority. Applications for a head of the following departments will be accepted for a short period: Navigation, the Tower, Medbay, Defense, the Hold, Sanitation, Ingress work, and the Galley/Mess Hall. (Here.) After reviewing what they receive, one head of department will be chosen and tasked with helping crew find positions relevant to those departments and their own skillsets. They will be allowed to retain any positions that they held before that aren’t ship-functional jobs, but they will have to be done in leisure time. In two weeks time, they’ll be accepting department position applications which will be approved, and all those that do not apply will be assigned in accordance with their initial work application. They will also choose three individuals to act as guards of Ploiatos to ensure that there is a rotation available at all times. Will you choose to follow this new decision and promote yourself into a position of responsibility? Or will you simply wait for a reassignment?
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hownkai) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thisavrou_log2016-08-01 12:13 am
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For one, he'd like to know what the hell the kid is doing up there— but first things first. ]
Not much of a difference between the two. [ Sahara-dry. But it lacks the edge that it needs to be a biting comment, and only comes across as something slightly weary, quietly resigned. Even soldiers have to have a sense of humor about what they do sometimes, after all.
Scarred lips knit for a second, debating on whether or not to leave it at that. The fact that he doesn't is a rare occurrence. ] —Yeah, I'm military.
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[ Andyr's still somewhat pulled on it, between the military he knew through his dad's stories, and the corporate one that exists now, stuffed full of clones and House paid mercenaries as their handlers.
For a moment, he's watching the man, trying to decide which to slot him into. So much of Andyr's view of people comes in black and white, sometimes it only takes a tossed aside answer to an arbitrary question for him to completely write a person off, or decide he has no need to learn anything else about them. Just put them in the category of "probably an asshole" and move on. And sometimes simple association with something he remembers fondly is enough to make him decide to invest, when he's typically distant.
Wry, rough edged, paranoid military is one of those things. With a small smile, he ducks his head back a moment, squirming around in the tunnel a moment, before he's sliding forward to grip the edge of the vent and drop himself down. For the sake of the man not having to crane up at him, taking a seat against the wall not far away. ] My dad was military. Marine spec ops.
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Incidentally, despite his biases against being affiliated with countries, he harbors no ill will for the men that occupy them. Which is why he remains neutral, expression set to something earnest despite the frayed edges of his features. ]
Spec ops, huh. Brave man. [ He notes the use of the term 'was', but carefully sidesteps the issue of tenses, himself— best not to jump to conclusions. ] He give you any training?
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Yep. When Mom passed, he left the service to look over me and my sister, and started up a school for the neighborhood. [ a martial arts school, not a, you know, school-school, but Andyr figures that's implied, what with the whole combat specialist thing. ] I helped teach the kids classes for a while.
[ Until he was almost 18, and then, Hapsburg, and neither of them did much of anything after that. Andyr for the fact he ended up a prisoner, and his dad for the fact he didn't make it that far. Lacked the gene to be of value enough. ]
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His rifle, reassembled, goes back to being slung over his shoulder. ]
Tell me what you taught them.
[ Which isn't to say that he doubts the nature of this school, no. He's seen children in burnt-down villages with pistols in their callus-worn hands, going through the motions for fear of retribution. Venom is about 99.99% sure that this is Not The Case with Andyr, but.
Depending on the answer he gets, he has a feeling he'll know the kid's quality of character. ]
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The school kinda ended up a community center. They had a place to go after school, friends, people who could be family and support if their home life was fucked. All that good shit like discipline, commitment, perseverance. [ memories of some of the boys and girls he'd seen through the years float up from somewhere locked in the back of his head. kids who looked at him like a big brother, who always ran for a hug when they came in for their class. some he'd even babysat for the parents that had to work. in a distant pause, andyr wonders where they went, when he and his dad disappeared and the school shut down. if they found somewhere else, if they grew up happy. they weren't like him, didn't have the gene that damned him. they had a chance in the world. he clears his throat, going on about the rest. ] There were competitions and stuff in the region too, so they had stuff to work towards, feel like they accomplished something.
[ back when all this shit was just a sport. innocent. it was all it needed to be for them, flourish and forms and meeting challenges. it stopped being that for andyr the moment it became survival. ]
Dad taught me more. [ and a good thing he did. he may not have been dead without it, given his genetics were valuable to keep alive, but he'd be a husk of a person. he's certainly not the kid he was before the House took him, a far cry from it, but he's at least fought hard enough for himself to feel like his father might've been proud. ]
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It's a warm picture that Andyr paints, so Venom decides not to ruin it with comparisons. He shifts in his seat, where his bionic twitches to tap one note against the hard surface of the table. ]
Sounds like a lot of work. [ Is his very pragmatic, very short response, but his demeanor is far from cold; the cant of his head is a bit wolfish, like an old canine with his nose turned up towards a scent.
He's listening. Usually, he wouldn't say anything beyond that, but he feels the need to append, since he got Andyr on the subject. ]
—Worthwhile, I'm guessing. [ More of a personal observation than a question. ] Anyone can learn to fight. Applying it for a cause— that's a different story.
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there's defending yourself for the sake of keeping peace, and then there's taking back what was stolen. for them, then, it was his sister. after, it was andyr's entire life, his family, his home, the person that he was, that he could've been. all they'd stripped from him.
but that's taking a sharp turn into something more heavy than just teaching kids in the slums, and while andyr's been content to scream it at the top of his lungs to half the population of his world, mostly for the fact they'd been so satisfied with just ignoring the ugliness of it, there is actually some measure of respect for this man. that, and, it's always easier to talk about when he's angry, and andyr's unfortunately not angry right now. not yet, at least. after rolling it around in his head a moment, he breathes out a slow exhale. ]
How about you and me have a trade? You tell me how you lost the eye, I tell you how I got these. [ bowing his head forward, the collar of his shirt tugs back with the movement, and Venom will be able to see a circular, metal port at the bottom of his neck, over his spine, roughly an inch in diameter, with something like a clear gel filling the central hole. andyr reaches a hand back to push his hair up from the back of his neck, showing another port at the base of his skull, this one with "PROPERTY OF HOUSE HAPSBURG" engraved into the rim.
It happens to have a lot to do with that 'for a cause' thing. ]
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The thought that nothing will change, that the framework of the world will remain constant while the people within them change regimes, is still a heavy weight that settles in his subconscious. His expression twitches, from neutral to blank to questioning. Quiet empathy that fades into the background with militaristic discipline— his feelings have never saved anybody, let alone himself.
So he shelves them.
The second wave of nausea comes from the issue of his memory, the truth of the loss of his eye, which he can neither explain nor remember with any clarity. He wasn't lying when he told Andyr that he had an accident— the one that took his arm, the one that gave him his horn— but his eye? God, who can even be sure anymore?
His brows knit, conflict flitting over his hardened expression. Wide shoulders brace themselves, and only settle when he brings himself back under his tightly-controlled self-restraint. ]
—Not sure if that's an exchange you want to be making.
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so many here come from places that aren't touched by the level of horror his world has come to take as commonplace, and andyr'd only met one or two who could really understand the reality of a set of people being bought and sold, cracked open and internally rearranged as simple as someone might lift the hood on a sports car. slide a scalpel down a chest, and pry ribs open to get to the engine.
it's no secret to anyone where andyr comes from what happens to him day in and day out, or exactly how the ports in his back got there, all it really takes is looking at the discoloration in his eyes to know what he is, and what category of society that slots him into. if it can really be called that at all. so, while it's awkward (isolating, exposing) to tell people here on the ship, who come from worlds so much more reasonable than his own, it isn't anything new. not that part of it, at least. ]
Wouldn't offer it if I didn't want to make it. [ but that's his side of it. the eye may be much more sensitive of a topic, and he's hardly going to force the man to tell him. ] Up to you.
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But even without that knowledge, simple human empathy accounts for the thinning of Venom's lips. He isn't the type to reveal much about himself, let alone talk about the things that comprise him or the things that've been taken from him— but there's something about how candid Andyr is, how simply he offers the anomalies embedded in his skin, that makes Venom feel like he's talking to a fellow soldier. Desensitization is the first common ground, after all.
He sighs, a sound that gets lost under the sound of his fatigues shifting against his chair. ]
...There's no story. Lost my vision in this eye [ he taps it, over the eyepatch. ] after a scuffle.
Don't barter your past for something that cheap. [ And to drive the point home— your life is your own, not an excuse to barter for information— he puts up a hand, to dissuade the younger man from feeling obligated to reciprocate with a comment. ]
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It's not my past. It's my present. [ that's the thing - his life isn't his own, and it hasn't been for years. yes, it should be, and no, he isn't brainwashed into thinking he has no right to himself just for the fact someone else said so, because unlike the Mice born or engineered inside the Houses, Andyr had a life. he's been a person, once, before that was taken. but even those on the inside tell him he'd never deserved that, to just shut up and make the shit life he has easier on himself. ]
And I'd rather say it than pretend it didn't happen, doesn't keep happening. Like the rest of the fucking world does. [ and that's the fucking problem right there. pretending it's just something to quietly suffer, because there's no possible better alternative, realistically. whether or not he'll actually win his freedom someday isn't the damn point. ] You keep quiet about fucked up shit like that and it just lets the people doing it think that means, because you stopped saying 'no', they can stuff 'yes' into your mouth. Like that makes it okay, and everyone else can just be fucking settled with it.
[ ah. and there's the anger. it doesn't take much for it to rise, and it's more a blessing than anything else. so much more soothing to think in terms of hate than shame, and he feels stronger with the burn of it. not some helpless kid drugged up and strapped to a lab table. at least, like this, he'll get there with blood on his teeth and torn flesh under his fingernails. ] What dad taught me isn't enough to save me, but it's meant I can send a whole lot of sick fucks to hell before I make it there myself.
[ and that's really all it is. he's not going anywhere, he can't fight an entire military, or the entire globe, all on his own. hell, he's not even convinced the small resistance they formed can. but he can keep massacring every chance he gets, if for nothing else than to have at least one person standing up for him. at least himself, so that he can say 'i never gave ground, i never compromised.' ] No one here's taking anything from me I'm not giving by myself. If they want to try, they can follow right along after the others.
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He knows what it feels like, the hollowed-out desert of a soul that runs on loss and fury. The need to sink his fangs into something tangible, for blood shed for blood. It used to be the only thing he had, but his indignance was always for a different reason than the insistent, grit-teeth purpose that Andyr is laying out for him now—
—it was never about himself, no. Not for Venom. ]
...If that's your fight, I have no reason to tell you to stop.
[ That is likely not a very responsible adult thing to say, huh. Most people would tell a young man hell-bent on ripping apart his enemies with his teeth, his nails, to keep himself from self-assured destruction. To be sure, Venom wants something better for this boy with his irregular eyes and the imposed artifice in his spine, but there are things that are beyond his reach.
So all he can do, as always, is hope that Andyr makes it. ]
If that's how you want to leave your mark, then fight for it. [ For something better. For a world where preexisting frameworks become obsolete. Unnecessary. ] ...But remember that what you're doing is for the future. Not to tread familiar ground.
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the chuckle that comes from him is something hollow, and distant, and for a long moment, andyr's silent. it's so surreal, to him, to actually be discussing this with someone who looks at it as something that needs to be fixed. that shouldn't exist, that is wrong. part of him still thinks, if Venom were from his world, and had been on of those on the outside, who don't have to look at the horror going on inside the Houses that makes the rest of the world's life easy, he wouldn't care. ]
I don't have a future, neither does anyone else like me. [ That's the quiet truth of it he hasn't told the others from home, because they need to look at him and believe he's fighting for all their freedom. That he's someone like Mikal, making plans and plotting raids. That his violence is more than just his own means to keep himself sane. But he'd lost that hope years ago. So much sooner than other did. For himself, at least. Maybe the clones can sneak out, maybe even Alva can take his daughter an run and they won't hunt him as far. But not Andyr. They'll never stop coming for him, and he can't possibly fight the whole system. ] My mark doesn't mean shit. It'll be scrubbed clean as soon as I'm dead.
[ No one's going to remember him as anything more than blueprints. No one aside Mikal, Alva and Posie, maybe. He means nothing to this world, and they've seen to it he's invisible. There's no choice that he has in that, and as much as he's fought to defend himself, to get out, to do something, the fact of it is: they're an army, and he's one kid, and for all the strength he has to his advantage, a well aimed sedative still knocks him out cold, and from there on, his body and his life isn't his own any longer. ] You fight, or you lay down and let them carve into you, because they won't let you die.
And what fucking good am I if I just lay there? May as well be brain dead.
[ he needs this, because none of this has ended for him, and it won't, for a very long time, if ever. maybe the one thing he can have is an idea that he'd tried, even if it came to nothing. ]
no subject
That stolid expression flits downwards for a second to adjust to the dull pain, molars gritting imperceptibly as his faulty memories hit him with secondhand emotions. A slight deviation from his placidity, but nothing too alarming. ]
—Then you're just going to have to decide for yourself, where you want your grave to be.
[ Because Venom relates, in a way that he knows is futile. He's been sold, he's been dead from the moment he'd stepped in front of Big Boss and felt his own flesh burn— and one day, his physical self will finally be removed from the equation, and even his ashes will be confiscated to remove the proof that he existed.
Resignation was somehow easier for him than the alternative, though, so there it is. He's not exactly the best person to ask for advice about autonomy. ]
Your name?
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helplessly angry as he is that that is the choice he has. and yet, what he'd said about the future - maybe not for him, but maybe for alva, for posie. for alva's kids. for the miray that alva loves, already in alaska and safe for at least the moment. isn't that what he was in the middle of, back home? raising hell to get those out, at least? so, where does he want his grave to be? ]
On the Director's desk, with his eyes in one hand, his heart in the other, and his throat in my teeth. [ because he's never going to shake that need to rip the man apart, and even if he'll be gunned down on his way there, if he can make it, maybe it's good enough. if the others can get out of the city and disappear into the arctic during the lull of the raid, that's worth it. ] While everyone else runs.
[ alva and mikal would scream at him for saying it, but they both have so much more to give, and he's already turned himself inside out with this. even if he could get out, even if they didn't hunt him to the ends of the earth, he's barely been able to function the last few days on the Moira without tearing things apart in the sims. what makes him think he could ever be just normal again? ]
Andyr. You?
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He has an inkling as to which one is his, really his, but he doesn't vocalize it. It sounds trite, even to him.
So he makes a vague sound, neither of assent or dissent, before opening his mouth. ]
You've still got time to assess your options.
[ Because here they are, lost in limbo. Suspended between here and there, with no real plans aside from surviving. 'Cooperating'. At least the experience may lend itself to giving some sense of perspective.
(Pipe dreams.) ]
—Ahab. [ Ignore the beat that it took for him to decide upon a name; it's a sticky subject, now. ] Call me Ahab.
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Maybe. Thanks.
[ for giving a shit. for listening to him pour out all his fucked up crap about home. hell, for letting him transpose all his feelings about a missing father on you, random space stranger. andyr blinks for a moment, deciding he's thinking way too much about all this crap, and stretches his back some, trying to will it away and get back to the conversation. ]
Ahab. [ Andyr repeats it, committing it to memory. A rare occurrence that he cares as much to (it took him a year to finally remember Alva's right), but he seems like someone worth knowing. ] I hope life sucks less for you while you're here, Ahab.
[ Because you seem to have that feel about you. the carrying too much weight on your shoulders, and made so tired by it feeling. the way he'd taken what andyr'd told him so calmly, when people who'd only seen the ports here had been horrified. it says something about desensitization. ]
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He'd like something better, but better has never been an option. He sometimes closes his eyes and sees that hypocritical angel of a young woman from memories he can't truly recall, sees that brilliant blond hair and her bright, open smile coyly tipped towards him.
('Say peace!')
Andyr's sentiments are as welcome as they are impossible, but his features ebb into something softer, regardless. ]
That's gonna be difficult.
[ And there he goes, back to his short, dry sentences. At once dismissive, but in reality, deeply meant. His brevity doesn't necessarily mean that he doesn't digest every word thrown his way. ] —After all, the vents have eyes.
[ jesus ]
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Dork.
[ But on the subject, he is a bit proud he'd managed to sneak up on him, and considering he's come to like the guy okay - ]
Lemme know if you need anyone stalked. 'Cause you're definitely too huge to fit up there yourself, and that hand would be loud as hell.
[ Because he's running out of reasons to creep on people when they're all seeming so genuinely wholesome (which makes the suspicion even greater, really), and could use something to do while he's up there... pretending to be working. ]
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She's the only one that'd come close to teasing him, with water splashed in his face after a surprise downpour. ]
I can stalk people just fine on my own.
[ He says, breezily, which is very likely not a very responsible thing or a very good thing to say to a young man??? What kind of example is he setting, here.
But he states it with such conviction that it's obvious that he is very, very capable of being stealthy and slitting throats when he has to. ]
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Either way, something with Ahab's quiet intensity and careful stoicism is just familiar in a way that has him feeling comfortable rather than anything else. Enough that he laughs a bit at the statement, though Andyr does completely believe he could manage stealth here just fine. ]
Yeah? With all your tac gear and your huge, ancient ass rifle and shit in the blank white space hallways? [ More teasing than anything else, but he squints a little closer at the gun in question, through the dim light of the hallway. ] What year's that from anyway?
[ He hadn't actually asked, but Andyr hasn't even met anyone else from 3000 and on, like he is, so he's assuming ancient is right - from his perspective, at least. ]
Can I see it?
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He hasn't forgotten what he's read in the information briefing he'd been given on arrival, but the fact that he may be talking to someone ages ahead of his time is still. Daunting.
Not that he shows it. The only betrayal of his trepidation is a slow once-over, from his rifle to Andyr, then back. ]
1984. [ Can't you tell from that shitty cassette player that he has strapped at his waist!!! That thing is completely unironic, god help him and his mixtape. ] Might be old for you, but it's still not a toy.
[ A dubious lift of one brow: can I trust you to look at my rifle without you accidentally murdering someone with it. ]
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[ So that'll tell you how much he's seen tech like this, aka, in museums. But they aren't so terribly different from modern guns that it's in decipherable. He knows all the parts and how they're supposed to work.
He wants to laugh at the idea of Ahab thinking he's looking at a gun like a toy. As if he hasn't gone through Hapsburg mowing people down a few times, when he was able to get his hands on one of the guards' sidearms. Instead, what he gets is a dry look, expression flat. ]
Nothing that good at killing people's a toy. Disarm it if you're that worried.
[ he isn't planning on shooting anything, just wanted to look over the mechanisms. it isn't often you get the chance to look at a relic of the past up close, and in such good condition. ]
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[ Okay, one second. Let him just... adjust to the thought of people who are from approximately 1500 years after his time. On one hand, congratulations to the human race for surviving for that long (nuclear proliferation really put a damper on the expectancy of the human race), but. Damn.
While he mulls over this, deft fingers swiftly remove the magazine from his SVG, leaving the firearm largely harmless for Andyr to look over. The firearm itself is old, worn, and riddled with deep scratches from unforgiving elements, but the pieces have all been tended to with meticulous care, slotted and customized by an attentive eye. Clearly, this is Venom's livelihood: the weapon is as indicative of the wars that Venom has weathered as the roadmaps running over his face, the incongruous and artificial limb, the missing eye.
Like its owner, the rifle is a relic of the distant past. Clumsy, but efficient. ]
...Must be an antique for you, then.
gently steals shit from mass effect la de da
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