station72 | [hatch log] into the garbage chute, flyboy(s)

Entry tags:

[hatch log] into the garbage chute, flyboy(s)

CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: The Station + Concordia
WHEN: DAY :43 - :44
SUMMARY: New hosts hatch on the Station; their arrival on Concordia is bumpier and smellier than usual.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary.

YOU WAKE UP and nothing will ever be the same again. A moment ago you were somewhere familiar - or familiar enough; now you're lying in a small faintly hexagonal chamber lit by a gentle white light emanating from the surrounding walls. You can't shake the sensation that you've been asleep for a long, long time.

The sluggishness of coming out of a deep, dreamless sleep persists all the way until you disconnect the tube running from the compartment's rear wall to the base of your neck. Then things get loud. A wave of emotion fills the void. Fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety; maybe some of these emotions are yours, but they can't all be. Somewhere, someone else is feeding their thoughts and emotions into your mind. On the plus side, it's easy to follow that digging, familiar sensation to each other. After all, you're part of the same brood. You belong together.

Welcome to Station 72. Sirius and Kavinsky will have one day aboard the Station to acclimate to their new reality before they're whisked away to Concordia to join the rest of the young hosts. Get to know one another, ask some burning questions; in a day's time you'll be boarding a shuttle and going somewhere far, far away.

MEANWHILE IN CONCORDIA, the host's espionage efforts are coming to a head. Preparations for infiltrating Public Security HQ are in full swing, a handful of hosts are planning to get in close with Representative Goram Saffit himself and there's currently a semi-functional android taking up one of the beds of the Bearings apartment block. Honestly, there's more than enough on everyone's plate without piling new hosts on top of it all. But that doesn't stop Nirad from disappearing when he's called to return to the Station. Presumably, this means everyone better get ready to debrief some new arrivals soon...

     ON THE STATION, there's a hum in the air - or the mind, rather. Follow the buzz and it'll lead to the Hangar Deck where a slick brick-shaped black transport is waiting. The source of the mental hum seems to be a young man: Nirad has come to collect you. He'll answer any questions; in fact, he seems happy to talk and length about absolutely anything. The boy's apparently the rambling type with little to no filter between his brain and his mouth. The combination of talking and mental hum can be disorienting. Once safely aboard the transport, the ship’s landing platform descends through the floor of the hangar. It snaps into place in the airlock. For a moment there’s a beat of perfect stillness, a shiver of anticipation. Then the transport is flung through the shaft and ejected into the wild black of space. There’s a nauseating lurch in your belly as it bursts through the delicate shell of the multiverse and snaps into real space above the blue and yellow marble of the planet Opia. Somewhere, thousands of miles below in the city of Concordia, the rest of your brood is waiting for you.

     A BUMPY LANDING
The stealth ship slices down toward the planet until it fills the entire viewscreen. "All right, everyone out," Nirad announces, unbuckling his harness and jumping to his feet. Uh. What?

He leads to the port side of the transport ship where there's a small series of circular ports. They're roughly shoulder width. At a touch of a button, the ports open out to a series of escape pods. There's only enough room for one and it looks like you'll be lying on your back the whole trip. "Hop in. I'll launch you and then follow you down in my own. The pod's stealth tech should keep you invisible to the locals until someone comes to find it, but don't forget to scrap the pod when you're out of it. We can't risk someone finding it laying around." A pause. "Sorry, by the way. Usually we'd just land the ship but it's getting kind of obvious."

Hopefully you weren't expecting a nice, easy trip down to the planet because this is dark and joyless. The escape pod has no windows. It launches from the transport ship and rockets downward at the behest of the planet's gravity. Everything shakes. It's desperately cold, then violently hot and then-- something gives. The sound of something whistling. A jerk. The escape pod trembles as the anti-grav jets at the base deploy. It's a last attempt to soften the landing, then the pod drives down into a mountain of debris like a tent stake into muddy earth.

Congratulations, you've landed more or less safely in Concordia's only open air landfill.

     SEARCH & RESCUE
It's three in the morning and maybe you're asleep in Bearings or maybe you're burning the midnight oil; either way, Carata is in your mind telling you to get up and get ready. "The new hosts have landed. Let's go pick them up, shall we? If I were were, I'd wear some clothes you don't really care for."

Time to go digging through the city's biggest ~~dumpster~~ transfer facility!

The escape pods will have to be unearthed and opened from the outside to rescue their inhabitants. Once free, be sure to dismantle pods and scatter them through the piles of debris. Eventually all of this will be recycled, but we don't want anyone finding mysterious alien technology in one piece now do we?

((OOC Notes: This is the hatch log for all new and recently returning hosts; any threads on the Station should be closed to newly awakened hosts or Station-based NPCs. Any threads on Concordia can be open to both new and old hosts!

If you have questions about the mission specifically, direct them to the most recent calendar post HERE. You can find a more detailed overview of the hatching process HERE; you might also want to take a glance at the MISSION CONCORDIA BRIEFING. For all other questions, please hit up either the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages.))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Kavinsky snorts, then he speaks, and in the meanwhile Petre returns to the pod with an eye-roll. By the time the question is aired his hands have found their way back to the hatch, yanking it off with a loud, metallic give, before it's dropped on the debris with a thud. ]

The best there is.

[ Perfect timing? ]

[Kavinsky prefers to fight with guns and homegrown bombs; he'll survive a fist fight, but it isn't his strong suit. He wasn't built to play fair, and nobody has held him to such a standard. The other boy rips the door off his pod like a hunk of cheese from a crumbling wedge.

He is salivating in a way that's almost all figurative, though he swallows an imagined wetness over his tongue.]

Glad we're on the same side. We are, right?

[Because he's had brawn behind him before-- he had Prokopenko around for that. But that's all he was. Good for following orders and not much else. This one's already shown an attitude.]

As long as you don't act like a little bitch.

[ Images flash briefly in his head: a blond girl called Ilde, then another, with shorter dark hair, called Parker. Both of them have unkind expressions, probably because Petre hasn't done a single thing to elicit any different. The first only seems to be an annoyance; it's the second that produces any real flare of anger. She's hurt Angel before. It won't take Kavinsky very long to figure out that's his broodmate, and the host that matters the most to him. ]

Are you gonna help me out? [ There's a pause, followed by a frown. ] What can you do?

Yeah, okay, as long as it keeps us cool.

[Everything the other boy has to offer, Kavinsky will soak up, a sponge with limitless pores. He's taken with the strength and what having that at one's disposal would allow for. Such traditional super powers have merit, though they lack the finesse of what it is Kavinsky can do.

Kavinsky eyes the pod and the one hovering above it.]

You're better at the heavy lifting, sweetheart, that's all you. I'll show you what I can do later.

[He could show him now, actually, but they're in a landfill and he doesn't want to nap on top of anyone else's used condoms.

Dream is there, the silver word, the kaleidoscope concept. When Kavinsky dreams, that's when he does what he does. And what he does is everything.]

Right. You just wanna be lazy, then.

[ Which isn't pissing him off as much as he thought it would, but he pointedly goes ahead and rips another piece off the pod, throwing it aside with a grunt. ]

What's your name, anyway?

[He corrects him:]

I want to watch you work.

[Kavinsky also wants to stretch, proven by one arm crossing over his chest, the other hooking beneath it to hold the limb in place. He breathes through it, head tilting, bones shifting and admitting a thin crackle.]

Special Agent Special K.

[Kavinsky. And, secondly: Joseph because it's on his birth certificate but nobody calls him by his first name.

Joe K. K. Kavinsky. Usually always mostly Kavinsky.]

[ It's a pleasant sound, the bones crackling. That satisfying second-hand feeling of something clicking into place, reminding him of when he does the exact opposite: rip bones apart, break them in half before he sinks his teeth in. People have described something similar when they crush dry leaves under their shoes, so... it must be something about the destruction involved. ]

Don't be a freak.

[ Like the ones who like to watch, he means. Fucked if he knows what they get off on. ]

... I'm not calling you all that. [ So, with a huff, another piece coming off, ] Just K. I'm Petre.

[ The metallic crash complements his name. ]

[What a pity to have all that power and still be a prude. Kavinsky has the usual inclination to fight to get a rise out of Petre, make him blow his top, but the easy manner in which he dismantles the pod inspires stronger impulse control.]

Yeah.

[He can't be a bitch or a freak, so he turns partially away to finish stretching his arm then switch to the other.]

Does anyone like us have a good time or are you all at a permanent funeral? Who here can hang?

[Serious and grumbly and uninterested in Kavinsky's brand of fun has become a trend between Sirius and Petre.]

[ And that, by the look on Petre's face, is Kavinsky's greatest offense yet. ]

What the fuck, I can have a good time.

[ I hang! I'm one of the cool kids! ]

[He doesn't say it, because he doesn't have to: prove it.

Kavinsky doesn't have to prove it; he is it. The party's always hopping right beneath his skin, waiting to spread out and infect the populace at large. Back on the station was the longest he'd been sober in some time and he doesn't plan to continue the streak for much longer.]

I'd like to see that, too.

[ Caught with a dumb expression, Petre stares a him with a mind torn between continuing to argue for his Status Of Cool and going ahead and showing him. They need to get rid of all these pieces, but...

Well. Maybe the others can take care of that. Petre's never been known for his diligent qualities. ]

Fine. Then let's go.

No. Tomorrow.

[He has a job to do and it begins by making sure the pod is put away. The second thing is showering until the smell of garbage spirals down the drain. The third is sleep; he is not tired in a specific and demanding way, but if he sleeps, he can dream. And if he dreams, he'll have the material he needs.

Part of it will involve--]

Give me your wallet. I want to see something.

[Hand out. Expectant.]

Fuck you.

[ At his 'no', then in Petre's own response. ]

Does it look like I carry a wallet?

You look like a virgin.

[It's a test to see how much the strongman can take before he picks a physical fight. Kavinsky keeps his tone light so as not to incite too much violence; he can take a punch from your average Joe, but his new friend's proven more formidable than that.]

What's the money look like here?

The fuck does that have to do with anything.

[ Because. Yeah, he is definitely a virgin, but his behavior would point to the contrary of being a virginal type. Whatever that means. ]

Why don't you figure it out. After you do your fucking job.

Are you telling me what to do?

[It's a layercake question; fluffed layers between the richness of inches of frosting. Seems all sweet and innocuous, but the goal is to poison, to aggravate diabetes, to break three months of solid dieting. The nicest Kavinsky has been is a question that ripples with poorly stacked tiers. He doesn't wait for the V-card to swipe his answer. Even if he speaks, Kavinsky will continue through and over him.]

I was already gonna do that, man. Chill out. Take ten, I'll work on the pod.

[ And just so he can be a defiant little shit, ]

Yeah, I am.

[ Which is a dare in itself: what're you gonna do about it? The guy's knee is practically broken and Petre's displayed only one of his many destructive tricks. He could take him on in a second, he's sure, but then he's never been careful enough to consider what other tricks people might have hidden up their sleeve.

Then he has to remind himself: no killing other hosts. That's generally frowned upon, however new and useless they might be. ]

Fine. I'll take you somewhere later.

[His knee's able to carry his weight, which is all he really needs it to do. He didn't shatter the bone, merely banged and bruised it. A good couple nights of sleep and he'll lose the slight stilted way he's walking. Regardless, Kavinsky carries himself like a champ, not a victim. He's been hurt before worse than this, so it's inconvenience, not trouble.

Within the dreck, he recovers a pipe of sorts that hasn't been worsened by rust to the point of losing its heft. He takes a couple practice swings with it, pointedly keeping his balance over his good leg so as not to fall right over. Serviceable.

He approaches the pod, eyeing it like a man at his feet that's done something to harsh the vibe.

Finally, he acknowledges the other boy again.]

Are you gonna buy me dinner, too?

[Clang, clang. Pipe down on the already wrecked pod. It's not the most... effective way of getting the job done.]

[ Meanwhile, not too far off, Petre finds himself something large and metallic to sit on, dropping heavily with a sigh. Boredom comes easily now that someone else is doing the job for him, and he's the kind of idiot who hates waiting around. He gets restless. He complains a lot. All in all, nothing changes from his usual behavior. ]

Sure. But I get to pick what you eat.

[ Petre eats the weirdest shit in town. (But he won't make Kavinsky eat people, at least.) ]

I'm not calling you daddy.

[Well, maybe if he made a really good case for it, but right now K's lacking inspiration.

The word-- dirty, stupid, naughty, funny-- brings forward flickering thoughts of Gansey and Lynch. Daddy and mommy. The joke that stuck but Lynch never appreciated. He deserved it, since he couldn't unglue his mouth from his prince's ass long enough to see what better paths lay before him. Kavinsky can't say he regrets it. He has so little regret. Not calling him a fag, not dragging him into the woods. He might regret showing him how to get precisely what he wanted out of his dreams, because once Lynch knew his secrets, he was done with him, but at the same time it meant he carved some niche for himself.

He'd had a role, at last. If they couldn't be together, they could at least be bound in their separation with the chasm between them more of a vacuum, sucking up the whole living world into its belly.

Except, had he run away? Had he disappeared into the stars? He tilts his head back, staring upwards into the expanse of the night sky, unrecognizable from the one on Earth. New constellations.

A sudden longing is broadcasted, sputters, disappears. Forget Lynch. Forget that long sought after closeness. He has something more here.]

Daddy?

[ The face he makes is just. The face of a teenager who has obviously never heard it in the dirty-to-funny context, wondering if Kavinsky's just an idiot or if he should feel offended for being too dumb to get it. His confusion is washed off the shore when he feels the rise of a different current, something murky and intricate. Stringy algae that can't be picked apart.

It draws Petre right back in. Vulnerability interests him, it gives him an angle from which he can enter a person's head, twist inside it. A defense mechanism that lies on offense. ]

You're thinking of someone. Who is it?

[No, he doesn't want to talk-- not talk, but offer that up. Not Lynch. But actively avoiding consideration of Lynch is like inviting him in with a complimentary potato at the door. Because Irish. A shaved head. A mouth that Kavinsky had spent a lot of time looking at behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Shoulders that has this angry roll to them, and there was always those tendrils of black ink peeking up from whatever dirty shirt he'd been abusing that day. Lynch's hands on the steering wheel of BMW, Lynch's hands on the wheel of something precious and stolen.

It was never gonna be you and me.

He scoots the thought away, he buries it in the yard. No big deal, he tells himself. Nothing he couldn't work with. A surprise at the time, but it doesn't hurt, it doesn't matter, it's no longer a shock. Lynch loved Gansey's cock just so much. He didn't care that Kavinsky could--]

No one here.

[He masters himself. Sort of. He hefts the pipe up high over his head and arcs it down until it hits the pod with the sort of force that rockets through the rest of his body. Again. Sound and violence and he is so sober he wants to vomit. That can be fixed.

He rubs his nose against his arm which is trembling from the exertion he just put it through. If it quacks like a cokehead...]

Get out. I'll find you later.

Edited (def wrong icon) 2016-10-23 20:51 (UTC)

What, now you're bothered?

[ Ever the salt on the wound. Petre sits back without worry, ready to move just in case Kavinsky decides to get creative with that pipe - he does look the type, after all. Just thinking back on the chaos that drew the demon to him in the first place... it wouldn't be a surprise in the least. But he likes it. He'd like to see more. Maybe even turn it against him. ]

Ask me nicely.

[Surprisingly, for Kavinsky, violence is not always the solution. It is not even-- always-- the second solution, should the first one not go as calculated. There are certain people worth picking a fight with, but many are subdued more easily by other measures.

This grim little shit is no different.

He offers him his middle finger and a slight lift of his upper lip.]

Please go jerk off alone then wait for my call.

[ He grins, barely controlling the impulse to reach for that finger and bend it on itself. ]

Nicer.

[hatch log] into the garbage chute, flyboy(s)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)