[hatch log / mission: hyrypia] the winds that will be howling at all hours

[onemind]

CHARACTERS: New Hosts & EVERYONE
WHERE: Station 72; Hyrypia - Naerstone House
WHEN: DAY :002 - :003
SUMMARY: New hosts hatch on the Station, are briefed, then make their way to Hyrypia to join the rest of the hosts… while they attend a very important history lesson.
WARNINGS: Will update as necessary. Need a warning added? PM this account please!

STATION 72
DAY :002

NEW HATCHES
YOU WAKE UP are are suddenly changed. --No. That's not right. You're you and there's no suddenly about it. It's been a while, hasn't it? It feels like waking up from a very deep, extended sleep or surfacing up from the darkness of some wine dark sea. Nothing is different and everything is because right there in your own head there's something both familiar and strange. You know intuitively that you've been unconscious for more than just a blink of the eye.

But here you are, a small miracle of the multiverse: lying in a small, faintly hexagonal chamber with a gentle white light emanating from the surrounding walls. If you were injured during your escape, those injuries have been healed. If you were anxious or frightened or distraught, those feelings have been calmed. There's something peaceful about waking up here - like you belong. That feeling persists even as you find the tube running from the base of your neck to the compartment's rear wall.

But once the tube's disconnected? Things get loud. A wave of emotion fills that peaceful void - fear, uncertainty, relief, a sense of purpose or loneliness or anxiety. A matching dread. An easy comfort. Maybe some of these emotions are yours, but they can't all be. After the initial sensory overload, the mental buzz elongates: stretches out into a murmur like the sound of a party happening behind a nearby closed door.

You can sit up - barely -, and shift out of the pod. There’s a ladder at your feet and a little cubby just before it with anything you brought with you as well as a set of crisp, loose-fitting white clothes; while your injuries are healed, whatever you’re wearing is in the exact state it was before. Maybe it's time for a change? Drop down the ladder to the floor of the Nesting Deck and you’ll find you’re not alone.In fact there are lots of you and none of them are the strangers they should be. Some even seems like people you've known for a very long time.They are as familiar as this place you've never been is.

Welcome to Station 72. Beyond this room it's quiet and still, feeling for all the world like a hollow shell.

--Or it does until a voice separates itself from the white noise in your head:


BRIEFING
THE VOICE IN YOUR HEAD isn't really a voice at all. It's the warm tang of camaraderie, tinged with a flash of impatience like ticking hands on a clock face and a flicker of wonder: a falling star. It says:

( My, you're all very fresh aren't you? Unfortunately, the multiverse waits for no spring chicken. Once you've figured out which way's up, won't you all join us? )
Join 'us' where is the question. And yet, once you're ready to meet the owner of the voice in your mind, your footsteps simply lead you there naturally. Two strangers sit in a small circular briefing room - a tall being covered in short brown fur with a rigid demeanor, and a pale alien with yellow washed frills at her jaw and throat who is smiling cheerfully.

"Hey there, sunshine," says Rhan, her frills humming as she speaks. "Why don't you take a seat so we can get started?"

[ooc note: please see here for the catch-all briefing thread]


THE STATION
WITH A LITTLE UNDER 24 HOURS before it's time to make the trip to Hyrypia, this is as good an opportunity as you're going to get to familiarize yourself with Station 72 before you leave it. There's plenty to see, but a distinct lack of people to make conversation with. It's lonely and quiet and there's a sensation of dust gathering even where there is none. Maybe studying the briefing files on your databank and going over your mission kit is the most proactive distraction, but if not? Well there's plenty of places to get lost...

HYRYPIA - NAERSTONE HOUSE
DAY :003

MEETING
A SINGLE SHIP LANDS in a field the color of burnished gold, returning to the place it had until late the night before occupied. It's carefully inserted beside dozens of other spacecraft bearing more than faint similarities, though each has its own unique aesthetic. When the gangplank drops, the loud engines powering down, it reveals--

New hosts. Seven fresh faces - obscured as they are in layers of intricate fabric - are led down the gangplank by Rhan There to greet them is a number of other hosts - any who answered to the sweet crystalline ring of Collector’s voice in their heads hardly a half hour earlier, speaking with certainty born of truth:

( Rhan and Siva’co are returning. Shall we see what stories they have to tell? )

Despite the solidarity that both combined groups provide, there's a feeling of eyes here. A number of guards along the edge of the shuttle field are watching the reunion like hawks. Better perhaps to return to the apartments where they'll be able to speak in private and teach the new hosts what it is that has been learned since their arrival. --Or explore, for those who prefer not to rest. Naerstone House's grounds are vast and they are almost entirely open to the parties of the pilgrims to explore.

THE PERFORMANCE
AS THE SINGLE RED SUN of Hyrypia dips low on the horizon there is a long, low, mournful sound. A deep bell-- or a horn? Or maybe it's something else entirely, but the call is heard and answered as any nearby servants inform the guests of the house:

“There will be a performance of the First Journey in a quarter turn. All guests are invited to attend.”

There's no mystery as to where the event is occurring. A steady trail of guests and servants lead out past the Veranda into the central garden where a number of pillars have been mounted and a large tiered platform festooned with with numerous draped curtains and abstract representations of trees and mountains - a great stage - now sits. The stage is surrounded by numerous low settees and tables, piles of thick cushions and richly colored rugs around which guests can be found clustered, lounging while sipping thick, syrupy drinks.

Each table is illuminated only by a single glowing orb at its center. Otherwise, as the sun sets it pitches the garden into darkness as even the castle itself has been left unlit. There are no lights in distant windows or on Naerstone House's high walls; these small orbs and the glitter of stars in the black sky might very well be the only points of light in the whole universe.

The allotted time passes and the performance begins. A sun rises over the stage. It's a much larger, more intricate glowing orb and reveals a number of players dressed far more simply than the Hyrypians the hosts have met. They wear complex machine masks upon their faces that shutter into different expressions as their hands flitter across their faces: dramatic caricatures to accompany the droning sound of their singing voices as they unfold the tale at the center of the performance - the one which drives this pilgrimage and for the Nest's very presence in the universe at all. It's the story of lost Rabadoceans coming to a planet near barren intent on brutalizing them - about loss and hardship until finally a single player separates from the rest. The orb of the sun over the stage turns, it's mechanical face shifting and resetting to indicate the passage of time as the very central platform of the stage begins to turn so that this lone player might walk. And walk. And walk through deserts and scrub land, through dark woods and dark caves, against the wind and with it. Through it all, the orb over the stage slowly lowers until at last this lone player can take it in their hands.

It cracks like an egg and brilliance streams from it. Braziers catch fire in the darkness. The garden illuminates itself. Every light in Naerstone House comes to life.

With that, the silence of the crowd breaks. There is applause -- each culture in its own unique fashion -- and then there is a rise of chattering conversation as the guests are served several small dishes and talk about the show they’ve just seen - and whatever possible clues it might give to the pilgrimage they themselves would soon be undertaking.

---

((OOC Notes: This is the hatch log for all new hosts as well as the evening's performance. Feel free to make your own logs and posts additional to this if you care to. You can find a more detailed overview of the host hatching process HERE and additional setting information about the Station HERE. Please be sure to review the MISSION: HYRYPIA ooc information. If you have any questions, please hit up either the mission's question thread, the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages!))

NAVIGATION • SETTING • FAQ • MOD CONTACT • GLOSSARY

( CODE BY WHAMBAM )

Comments

mat cauthon | ota

[calhar]

i. HATCH

[ It's far from the worst way he's woken up, and for a few blissfully lazy seconds he doesn't realize he's in the wrong place. An absent attempt to reach out for someone — a woman, dark hair, sharp eyes — meets the side of the chamber, and that's when he realizes this isn't Tylin's bed. The slow crawl of awareness feels more like a long night of drinking than what he'd expect after having a building dropped on top of him. Still, that's what awareness brings: he remembers the bloody Bowl and the Seanchan and the pavement, intimately, and he remembers Olver running off in the middle of a bloody battle.

Mat sits up with a start, stopping short when something catches at the back of his neck. There's a flicker of confusion and curiosity as his fingers find the cord, a slight pause as he wonders at it — then he pulls.

Curiosity's drowned out by the wash of confusion and fear and thoughts, things he doesn't know and can't describe, and he pushes his palm to his forehead with a wince. His own paranoia's chased out by anger (anger fueled by fear, admittedly), but it's more productive than simply being scared. When he moves, finds his belongings and gets boots on the floor and starts to wander the halls, it's only because staying put feels like the worse plan.

Controlling his reaction hasn't got anything to do with controlling his thoughts. Stubborn resolve is undercut by the sound and sentiment of a sharp curse at every turn, and the memories are a constant, chaotic stream: red stone, dry desert, a rope scratching at your neck. Faces with pointed ears and narrow eyes, fox-like. The visceral recollection of the air being snatched from your lungs.

For as loud as his head is, Mat doesn't bother to speak up. At the first sight of someone, his first instinct is to tug his hat lower over his face and turn the other way. If there's a sense of recognition there, it isn't bloody his — and all it's met with is more belligerent avoidance and a distinctly offensive spike of emotion in response. ]

ii. STATION

[ In the hours between waking up and being dragged off to the planet, Mat does a good job of acting like he's seen all this before. Or he would, anyway, if broodmates didn’t have direct access to his thoughts. They vary between a string of frustrated complaints and curiosity and wonder, though that's always snuffed out by paranoia and irritation within seconds. It's all in stark contrast to the way he wanders the ship and lounges about in the common areas, testing out food and drink and generally avoiding being sociable.

Things that he's got no patience for: half the tech in the kitchens. The data pads. The rec room and gyms look like torture chambers, for all he's concerned, and the private quarters feel about as secure as standing naked in the middle of a field. The range is the first room that gives any of his abrasive thoughts pause, and Mat finds himself putting down the spear he's still childishly keeping on hand in favor of investigating the guns.

There's a distinct tangent to his thoughts, then. From petty and frustrated and new, they take an abrupt turn for something older, more patient. More analytical. Mat doesn't go so far as to pick any of the weapons up, but there's a tug at his memory that makes him think he'd know how. How to hold it, how to use it — channel it? His thoughts say shocklance, but that doesn't fill in all the blanks. ]

Burn me.

[ It'll be easy to interrupt. If there's a way to separate one voice from the hum of all of them and tell when someone's coming up behind you, he certainly hasn't figured it out. ]

iii. PERFORMANCE

[ He hates literally everything about this. Starting with the outfits that make him feel like some kind of fussy, noble woman and stretching all the way through to the open apartments and the fancy party. The fact that these people look more like snakes or foxes than people doesn't help. Mat spends most of his time from planet-fall until the performance shirking responsibility and being generally lazy (lounging around in chairs in various locations, really), but restlessness is enough to keep his complaints to a minimum when the event starts in earnest.

Going doesn't translate to putting any extra effort in, though. Mat settles in at a table with another overdressed fool at it, and if it weren't for the flicker of caution that proves some tact — he does take a second to make sure it's one of his people, at least — it'd seem like he had none, given the way he skips introductions and jumps straight to insulting their hosts. ]

Bloody planet of bloody witches. [ Planet's a new word. Not his first new word lately, though, and he's taken to cursing it as adeptly as he would anything else. The mention of witches does earn a faint pang of guilt, but it passes quickly. The girls aren't here to take offense. ]

iv. WILDCARD

[ Run into him wherever on the station or on the planet, I'll roll with it! Mat's ability is power amplification and he sucks at controlling it, so you can read about it here if you want to heck with it. ]

hatch

[ryohji]

[ it isn't his memory that serves him a reminder. it's when he looks down for the first time since opening his eyes, laboriously, as though his head had been stuffed with feathers and cotton and tied from his chin to his bellybutton was a string. the massive blotch of dried blood on his shirt startles for a moment, and then his wits come back to him in an unyielding flood. an old man, his stomach severed open, spine and sinew visible. all consuming darkness, enough to drown in it. fear of the kind that stills your feet and keeps you put despite yourself.

it's these memories kaji takes with him when he finally makes his way down to the deck. before he makes any determination about where he is, and why, he fishes for a cigarette. four and five more directionless paces and he spots someone else, a man, looking just as lost as he feels. he is a stranger, or not - the thought is intercepted by a more abstract sense of familiarity, one that transcends the limits of reason. what is clear: the man's youth betrays him and his avoidant behavior doesn't exactly communicate a license of authority. ]

So they've taken you, too. [ bleary eyed, kaji attempts to meet his gaze. the longer he attempts, the more foreign the images that ripple in his mind's eye. the sensation of rope-on-neck makes him brush against his adam's apple absentmindedly, but the belligerence rolls off him like water off a duck's back. ] Isn't that right?

[calhar]

[ There's something laughably delinquent about the way Mat tries to avoid even a direct question. The impulse is there, stubborn; but even he's aware that it's about as childish as it is futile, and he eventually gives up on the act.

The resistance in the connection thins first, followed by a cautious pause as Mat looks the man over. Dressed oddly, plain — smoking, which he's vaguely jealous of. There's no obvious threat, but simple awareness is overlaid by darkness and fear and spine and sinew, and there's another beat of silence as Mat's thoughts skitter to an abrupt halt.

Not mine. Not his death. Mat tries to brush past it as he would any other memory that isn't his, but it sticks in a way that keeps his hackles on edge. ] Burn you— burn us, nobody's taking me anywhere. I'm not bloody staying.

[ The clear lack of a game plan to back up that statement is in the connection, stark as day, though there's a sense that he's scrabbling at something: portals, a metal tower. The words Aes Sedai, no translation, though the conviction around that one is shaky at best. There are more solid leads, like trying to fill in the gaps between Ebou Dar and here. ] Light, but where'd they find you?

[ryohji]

[ oh, he's a strange one. there's a muted bewilderedness plain on his face as kaji listens to him speak, before his eyes widen at the mention of -
the possibility of - leaving. kaji's not too keen on staying, either, not when he was so forcefully transported under conditions of extreme duress, and as far as he's aware promises made under duress were worth as much as the shirt on his back, mottled and stained and all. nevermind what he was in the middle of doing before the force attacked him. all that matters is that they've taken it away, the opportunity to die on his own terms. ]

Japan. [ the more kaji prods the connection - tentatively, like a blind man searching for his cane - the more he realizes the declaration is without real merit. something tells him that "japan" will fly right over the man's head just as the impression of - As sedy? Ebodar? - flies over his.

but he hasn't given up hope, not yet. but first - ]

Here. [ kaji produces his lighter and a single cigarette, offering them both on a single, outstretched palm. ] Kaji. Where I'm from names come before places.

performance

[greentech]

[ The frustration that rolls off of Mat is palpable in some regards. Pidge understands the feeling. It's something she's wrestled with herself ever since she arrived here. Every time she goes out on a mission, she feels like she's doing something for reasons she doesn't quite understand. That doesn't really excuse the way she speaks about their erstwhile hosts, though. For all that she finds their task unpleasant, she hasn't found a real reason to start disliking the people. She shoots him a look. ]

They're not witches. And you should be careful about what you say - we're guests.

[ That part is in the open and she's trying to maintain an air of someone shocked that one of her own would go so far as to insult the pilgrimage. ]

( If you're going to insult them, you could at least not make the rest of our job harder and do it where they can't hear. )

[calhar]

[ He should've sat somewhere else. That's his first thought, and the way he turns towards Pidge to reply — mask and all — makes it clear he's about to shoot back an unfavorable remark. The voice in his head stops him up short, makes him visibly flinch.

He doesn't reach for the medallion at this neck (couldn't, given the layers they've wrapped them all in), but he still thinks of it, acute and slightly despairing. It's been bloody useless since he woke up. ]

( Show me a candle that steady and I'll say they aren't witches. ) [ This isn't really about the glowing orbs, but that's what it's about right now. Light comes from fire or the Power, and these clearly aren't flames; and, while there's enough in the initial orientation and shared memory for him to know there's a logic to how they work, he seems content to ignore it.

Not that that's his real answer. That's what he's thinking, not quite intentionally, and the real answer comes an annoyed beat later: ]

( Stay out of my head. )

[greentech]

[ Pidge snorts underneath all of her layers and then carefully settles into one of the chairs nearby, arms folding across her middle, legs drawn up underneath her crossways. She's more perched than sitting at this point. Her attention is on him - laser-focused. She's not trying to probe, though. She doesn't like people digging in her head either, so she tries not to do it to other people. ]

( Not everything you don't understand is magic. Besides, most "magic" is just technology that people don't understand yet. It's all explainable. It's probably powered by their "nectar" and they have some sort of control device - probably operating on a mental wavelength or something. Wouldn't be the first time I've seen technology with a psychic link. )

[ She pauses for a moment and then adds: ]

( And I can't, if I want to talk quietly. Trust me, I don't like people digging into my head either, but it's a fact of life for us. )

wildcard | after the performance, returning to the apartments

[adamance]

[Given her assumed Station, Lexa is only vaguely conscious of those around her, but it's almost impossible for Mat to do anything but stand out to someone as image-minded as she is. And she does care for how she seems. Her head turns in his direction, though her mind doesn't reach out, not caring at that particular moment to teach someone new—and after so long, someone new does stand out like a sore thumb—that they've made a mistake.

It's on their party's way back to the apartments that she falls into step with him. Despite the layers of cloth, she keeps her head held high. Her eyes point forward, but there is the distinct sense that she's giving him all of her attention. For the moment. If he tests her patience, she might give up.]

What are your intentions among us? [There's no "hello" or "hi, my name is Lexa, and I feel like I have the right to demand answers from you." But even without these things, she does seem to have a sense of ... radiating condescension. It's just how she is.]

[calhar]

[ Mat's as aware of the other hosts as his own incompetence and their lack of control allows, which is to say: unpredictably, and without much advantage. In some ways, they've been interchangeable since he'd stepped foot on this planet, all varying degrees of confusing buried under piles of ridiculous fabric.

He doesn't decide this one's new until he hears the voice. Not in his skull, thankfully. The condescension strikes him as embarrassingly and comfortingly familiar — Light, he's already gone mad — and he doesn't miss a beat in responding. ]

If my intentions had any say — which they don't, mind — I'd be dicing in a tavern, not sweating under dresses.

[ It's an alarmingly honest statement. He'd much rather be drinking right now, not playing spy games for strange beings he's just met. That said, there's something dismissive in the way he clearly knows what she's asking for — a real answer, a soldier's answer — and doesn't bother to give it. ]

[adamance]

[What he says reminds her a bit of Parker early on, though he's already far less isolated. For one thing, he isn't attempting to fight her, but his disinterest in what they're doing—a legitimate thing, considering the circumstances—is similar enough. Not everyone who takes that hand will be anything less than self-interested. Not everyone is seeking a higher purpose.

Perhaps he thought he'd just have an opportunity to survive.]

I'm certain we'd be able to keep you hydrated and away from everyone, if that's what you want. [And if, by the end of this conversation, it is what he wants, Lexa will arrange it as best as she can.

She refuses to let someone new show up and compromise their mission.]

But I'd like to hear your reasons for choosing to continue your life. Did you think you would be swept off to somewhere far simpler? Did you board the ship here expecting to find wine and nothing more? [Given Bellamy's suspicions toward Rhan, it may be that he was forced along for the ride. But it's worth finding that out.]

iii.

[hymnals]

( Settle down. )

[ Adra can't glare at this newcomer--the hood covers his extremely judgmental face--but the irritation is there in his mind, anyway. He folds his gloved hands in his lap, leaning forward like he's terribly interested in anything else but talking to the man next to him. ]

( We have an image to maintain. )

[calhar]

[ Mat's very practiced at feeling judgmental looks whether he can see them or not, honestly. But if there'd been any doubt, the ripple of irritation in the link drives the point home. His own attention's cast toward the stage, though there's a distinct lack of real interest or curiosity beneath it.

The smallest blessing: he gives up on speaking out loud, slipping easily into the mental link. He does enough switching between languages without meaning to. This isn't much different. ]

( You have an image to maintain. )

[ No such thing as we. ]

( Light, it's like you've all been turned into slaves. Do you do everything they ask you to? )

[hymnals]

[ The reference to Light doesn't escape him, but he can't address it; he's too irritated by everything else this man's choosing to be. ]

( Were you born an idiot, or did you grow into it? )

[ The warmth that suffuses any connection with Adrasteius turns from something comforting to something inflamed, hot and angry. ]

( If we don't keep up this ruse, we're all going to die. I would call acting in your own self-interest the exact fucking opposite of slavery. )

[ JACKASS. ]

iii.

[shiro2hero]

Pretty sure they're not witches.

[He's a bit surprised at the sudden verbal words. Most of them have been using their mental links to communicate so far. The abruptness of it, too, is jarring, though he keeps it locked down behind mental walls. Shields made of stars and swirling nebulae.]

[Besides... witches conjures memory. Things he wants to keep buried while they're here. Dark figures in hoods, dark hands reaching and -- no.]

[Calm is forced, but his hand extends across the table. Covered like the other, so there's no giveaway gleam of metal, this time.]

You're new, right?

[calhar]

Am I? I'd almost forgotten.

[ The annoyance at the question is minimal, at best, and it's more a symptom of his general sour mood. Mat's very briefly distracted by what feels like stars, the image of the night sky — which reminds him of colors, the way certain thoughts look like patterns. He isn't a fan of that, either.

He's had enough time to know that not everything in his head is his, now, in new and even more frustrating ways than before. The flicker of something more solid, dark cloaks and hands — he tries to shut it out before it can trigger any backlash in his own thoughts, though it's only partly successful; a man, shadowed and smiling, movements eerily smooth.

If he takes the offered hand as a formality, he doesn't return the gesture. ]

Mat Cauthon. Very pleased to be here, to make your acquaintance, and to get all of this bloody over with.

[shiro2hero]

[Oh. Good. It's one of these. He inhales, slowly -- maybe this one will, at least, be less dramatic.]

It's just a question, man.

[Hide his own annoyance. Keep his tone even and steady. Because it's not worth it, is it? An argument out in the open won't do anything for their cover. He'd apologize, though, for the way his shields are, but there's no helping it. It's stars or the full brunt of what bounces around in his head.]

[Like those flashes. Like the one in return.]

[His free hand curls. Nails digging into palm. Easy. Ground yourself and remember what you've learned so far.]

"All of this"? The mission or the whole Nest experience? Because I've gotta warn you about the last one.

iii. Performance // cw: drug use

[100mitsubishis]

Yeah.

[Kavinsky pauses, tips his head back, and lets his eyes lose focus again. In order to withstand the performance (he's never liked arthouse) and the itch of so many layers, he's gone and swallowed a medley of pills. At this point, the rest of the Hive is lucky he's sitting upright and hasn't dozed off in the middle of any diplomatic conversations.

Just his luck that he'd wind up at a table with a newbie. He prefers to be closer to sober for those critical first meetings. Fresh meat needs to be tenderized, not treated to his molasses attentions.]

Fuck witches, man. Blows.

[He blows, between his lips, and it is decidedly not a whistle. Just air passing through.]

a good start

[calhar]

[ Well, it's slightly better than another lecture. Mat gives him a second glance, slightly dubious. With the costumes, there isn't much to tell by looking.

There's a warm buzz in the connection that's both hard to pin down and hard to shake, but he's reluctant to pry. Not out of respect for anyone else's privacy, obviously — he just doesn't want anyone to pry back.

After a thoughtful delay: ]

What's fuck mean?

iv wildcard

[sizeofyourbaggage]

[ Of all the missions to throw people into straight away - well, honestly, throwing people into a mission right after they wake up on a space station with a symbiote in their brain they have to navigate around is never all that great, as far as Sam's concerned.

He'd hated it, back on Concordia, and based on those he's met so far, he's got a feeling they might be experiencing something similar. Sam's done his best to keep his mind closed off, trying to give the newer Hosts a sense of privacy and some space from the chaos of the Nest in general.

When he runs into one he hasn't officially met yet after the performance, when they're all back in the relative privacy of the apartments, he can't help but shoot him a small smile. ]

You seem like you're enjoying this about as much as I am.

[calhar]

[ The low furniture and pillows make it feel like the Aiel camps, almost, and that's at least more like home than the station had been. That doesn't take the edge off of his wariness, but it does mean it's easy for Mat to settle in once the show's over.

He's sitting with his back to a pile of pillows, eyes narrowed as he skims through information on his databank. Sort of, anyway. He isn't reading anything, he's just getting a feel to how it responds — and even that he's doing begrudgingly. He doesn't look up immediately at the comment. There's a short delay, a small pause in his task as he gives Sam a once-over, and then he turns his attention back to the tablet. ]

I'd rather be kissing a flaming goat, if that's what you mean.

iv.

[lifewithoutrest]

[ Helen only approaches him once they're in more private quarters, and she's no longer cloaked in quite so many layers of heavy cloth. ]

A recent arrival?

[ Or at least, recently awakened. She prefers arrival. ]

Unfortunate timing.

[calhar]

[ Mat's abandoned most of the costume, though it's still in an unceremonious pile of cloth nearby. He's made a spot for himself in one of the public spaces, leaning back against a pile of pillows, and he glances up at the comment.

There's a short sense of annoyance — he's getting sick of the question, apparently — but he miraculously holds it back in his response. ]

Unfortunate timing is one of my best talents. [ Well, most of it. The annoyance seems self-deprecating, at least. ] Though I can't imagine a time when having bloody creatures stuffed into your skull could be called anything else.

the "i do what i want" option

[miscreant]

[Seviilia had not been about to acknowledge him on the performance floor -- it was hard enough for her to blend in with all the others, even with the modifications to her outfit to hide her more outstanding features. Insulting their hosts where the walls had eyes? Even she isn't that reckless.

So, when they arrive back at the apartments, she takes the opportunity to corner him after he is well inside. If he doesn't respond to her blocking his path, then he will be unceremoniously shoved into the nearest wall.

Her hood is still up, the voice changer still in effect, absolving her of her immediate undead identifiers.]

Whatever misgivings you have about where we are and what we are doing, absolve them. Immediately.

ii. time to double up on threads, as promised

[skaikru]

( she still doesn't feel completely awake. walking through the station after the briefing feels a lot like drifting through dreamland, everything loosely familiar but different. this isn't the ark, it's too new and well maintained to be the ship she grew up on, but clarke picks out a few similarities here and there. the spacing of the air vents, the hiss of pressure, the rumble of the engines somewhere beneath her screams of home and brings about a wave of nostalgia she'd not expected. but on the ark, she never would have gotten lost.

already loosely packed and prepared to post up in the hangar bay until their departure, clarke's taken a few wrong turns and somehow manages to end up in the door frame to the shooting range, and means to turn right around and backtrack to the game room until she spots mat in front of a rack of guns. it's still odd, how his very presence hooks behind her lungs and guides her feet. but color her more curious than peeved while stepping further into the room. )

Rifle, ( comes the gentle correction to silent wonderment. she doesn't mean to startle him from his observations, not with so many weapons on hand at the very least, and stops a few feet away. ) The one you're looking at, it's a semi-automatic rifle. Do you know how to use it?

time to respond a week+ later WHOOPS

[calhar]

[ He does startle, but the salve of the connection and his own stubborn pride quickly dilute it. Mat glances over his shoulder, taking a moment to confirm that it's her — as if he hadn't known it from her voice — then he gives the weapon another cautious look.

The answer should be straightforward, yes or no. It's muddied in his mind, though, and the reason he takes his time answering will be clear across the link. He isn't confused. It feels more like a vague memory, like trying to parse out the answer to an equation — the information's all there, but he's still got to work through it.

Mat reaches out to run his fingers over the barrel, the trigger; when he picks the rifle up, muscle memory doesn't immediately fill in the blanks. He doesn't point it at himself (or at Clarke, thankfully), but he's still holding it flat and looking it over instead of taking hold of the grip. ]

No. [ It's a very short answer for such a long wait, and it doesn't feel like a lie, but it doesn't sound certain. The tactile memory of metal and the resistance of a trigger stirs in his mind, but he derails it by turning his attention back to Clarke. ] You do?