![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
- *hatch log,
- adam parker [original],
- ahsoka tano [star wars],
- anakin skywalker [star wars],
- anduin wrynn [world of warcraft],
- angel [borderlands],
- aoba seragaki [dramatical murder],
- ares [vagrant soldier ares],
- cathaway,
- hux [star wars],
- ilde vilmaine [original],
- illyria [angel],
- kylo ren [star wars],
- lexa [the 100],
- michelle benjamin [kings],
- nathaniel horn [original],
- rosemarie strauss [original],
- steve rogers [mcu],
- the prince
[HATCH LOG] IS ANYONE THERE?
CHARACTERS: All
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: Day :150
SUMMARY: Today is the day you wake up.
WARNINGS: None; will edit if necessary.
A MOMENT AGO it seemed like you willingly took the hand of someone beckoning to safety.
NOW YOU WAKE UP in one of many chambers of Station 72’s nesting deck. If you had wounds, they’re (mostly) gone; if you had doubts they are - for the split second between dreaming and waking - gently reassured. This is correct. This is right. You’re safe here. The only question is what here is exactly.
The compartment you find yourself in is small, though gently padded for comfort with enough elbow and head -room to not be wholly claustrophobic. Still, it’s difficult to re-orient yourself; the best way to get to the chamber’s built in ladder and down to the smooth, polished white floor of the nesting is to simply roll over onto your belly and go out feet first.
First thing’s first though: get rid of that tube running from the rear wall of the chamber to the base of your skull. The moment you’ve done that, there’s the sensation like a rubber band popping - a string in your hand being jerked. The headache that punches in falls like the heavy end of a hammer - not serious, but surprisingly abrupt - as a of combination confusion, resolve, anxiety, certainty, delight, and fear and expectation finds you. In fades after a moment, churning to a low dull pressure and a faint hum. It’s feels like standing outside the door of a small party, sounds muffled and incomprehensible. Some pieces rise and swell above the others then fall again. Strain your ears and realize you’re hearing nothing at all.
On the plus side, you’re not hooked into the compartment anymore. Slide out and onto the ladder, though not too fast or you’ll miss the small cubicle built into the wall near the mouth of the chamber. In the cubicle are all the things you brought with you, every small piece you own of the home you left behind. There’s a neatly folded pair of something like white pajamas there as well. They’re definitely in your size, though you have the option not to wear them since you’re still in the clothes you left home in. Granted, for some of you that might not exactly be a blessing. Your clothes haven’t exactly been laundered or repaired, so best hope you didn’t bleed or sweat on them too much during your escape.
Sliding free from the chamber pod and stepping out onto the ladder, you’ll find yourself in an open space. The room is broad and pale and clean, its sloping walls featuring dozens and dozens of holes like the one you just wiggled out of. There are more ladders and a few other people climbing down, or stareing, or already down on the nesting deck’s floor but the sixteen - seventeen, including yourself - people present would hardly fill even a sixth of the room’s available accommodations.
The noise is louder when you near any of the others. It’s as if you've entered the party yourself. Identifiable now is the low wash of feelings, a hum of emotions that only serves to make the slight headache worsen. They feel genuine. They feel like they could belong to you. Still, that pressure in your head doesn't worry you --Shouldn't it worry you? Does worrying - about the headache, about the world and people you left behind, or the strange place you’re in now, the odd collection of people you’re with and the fact that you feel strangely drawn to five or six of them - make the headache better? Or worse?
If you manage to push the sound aside and listen with your true ears, you'd notice you can't hear anything besides this small group of fellow hosts: their footsteps, their oddly sharp breathing. There’s no sound of traffic, no wind in the trees, no birds, no hum of a ship. Only circulating air and silence.
You may not know what a brood is, but finding yours is easy. There are minds among these strangers that call to yours, their voices louder than the rest, their feelings sharper. The nearer to you they are, the more comfortable you feel. Is that strange? You don't know them, but you do. There are few answers to be found on the nesting deck.
Eventually you will have no choice but to head out of the room. There’s only one way out that you can see: up through a spiraling hallway that arches overhead. When it opens again the space seems slightly less alien. There are doorways of a kind lining the walls and each one opens to a small, nearly normal room. There are no doors, so it's easy to see all the rooms are vacant. In seventeen of them there are items neatly stacked on the bed. Most are hygiene supplies. Some of them - a toothbrush, comb, razor - may be familiar to you. Others less so. There's a flat horizontal ledge beside the bed with a small light and a single drawer. Another table, apparently built into the wall, sits across the room with a chair. A mirror is on the desk; it’s slightly mundane and not quite to the Station’s style.
This room is yours for the moment. It doesn't mean someone won't want to trade - or take. Beyond this life support deck stretches the rest of Station 72. It is quiet and and twisting and perfectly inert.
At its most familiar, the Station is merely a still, empty ship with broad chambers and gently mottled light. At its worst, it’s an Escher painting of strange angles and bizarre platforms that seems grown as much as built. There are many ways to many places and while it seems all doors and passages open to you, there’s an unshakeable feeling that the space doesn’t quite match up - that there’s even more to the Station which you can’t yet see. Don’t get lost!
For now, you reach the floor of the nesting deck. When you do, something blooms in your mind. A voice, disturbingly lacking any identifying traits but warm and comfortable like sweetened milk, says:
( ▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬...There you are...▬▬▬..Welcome to Station 72 ▬▬. )
If you follow the thread of that voice, you’ll eventually find your way either to Cathaway on the bridge or The Prince in the training wing.
((OOC Notes: Welcome to Station 72! Feel free to check out the SETTINGS page for more information about the Station. If you have any questions about the setting itself, feel free to ask them there; otherwise, please direct all questions to either the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages.
Prince’s top level should be live in the evening! Keep an eye out for it if you want him to give your character the introduction spiel instead of Cathaway.
Happy hatchday, everyone! :) ))
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: Day :150
SUMMARY: Today is the day you wake up.
WARNINGS: None; will edit if necessary.
A MOMENT AGO it seemed like you willingly took the hand of someone beckoning to safety.
NOW YOU WAKE UP in one of many chambers of Station 72’s nesting deck. If you had wounds, they’re (mostly) gone; if you had doubts they are - for the split second between dreaming and waking - gently reassured. This is correct. This is right. You’re safe here. The only question is what here is exactly.
The compartment you find yourself in is small, though gently padded for comfort with enough elbow and head -room to not be wholly claustrophobic. Still, it’s difficult to re-orient yourself; the best way to get to the chamber’s built in ladder and down to the smooth, polished white floor of the nesting is to simply roll over onto your belly and go out feet first.
First thing’s first though: get rid of that tube running from the rear wall of the chamber to the base of your skull. The moment you’ve done that, there’s the sensation like a rubber band popping - a string in your hand being jerked. The headache that punches in falls like the heavy end of a hammer - not serious, but surprisingly abrupt - as a of combination confusion, resolve, anxiety, certainty, delight, and fear and expectation finds you. In fades after a moment, churning to a low dull pressure and a faint hum. It’s feels like standing outside the door of a small party, sounds muffled and incomprehensible. Some pieces rise and swell above the others then fall again. Strain your ears and realize you’re hearing nothing at all.
On the plus side, you’re not hooked into the compartment anymore. Slide out and onto the ladder, though not too fast or you’ll miss the small cubicle built into the wall near the mouth of the chamber. In the cubicle are all the things you brought with you, every small piece you own of the home you left behind. There’s a neatly folded pair of something like white pajamas there as well. They’re definitely in your size, though you have the option not to wear them since you’re still in the clothes you left home in. Granted, for some of you that might not exactly be a blessing. Your clothes haven’t exactly been laundered or repaired, so best hope you didn’t bleed or sweat on them too much during your escape.
Sliding free from the chamber pod and stepping out onto the ladder, you’ll find yourself in an open space. The room is broad and pale and clean, its sloping walls featuring dozens and dozens of holes like the one you just wiggled out of. There are more ladders and a few other people climbing down, or stareing, or already down on the nesting deck’s floor but the sixteen - seventeen, including yourself - people present would hardly fill even a sixth of the room’s available accommodations.
The noise is louder when you near any of the others. It’s as if you've entered the party yourself. Identifiable now is the low wash of feelings, a hum of emotions that only serves to make the slight headache worsen. They feel genuine. They feel like they could belong to you. Still, that pressure in your head doesn't worry you --Shouldn't it worry you? Does worrying - about the headache, about the world and people you left behind, or the strange place you’re in now, the odd collection of people you’re with and the fact that you feel strangely drawn to five or six of them - make the headache better? Or worse?
If you manage to push the sound aside and listen with your true ears, you'd notice you can't hear anything besides this small group of fellow hosts: their footsteps, their oddly sharp breathing. There’s no sound of traffic, no wind in the trees, no birds, no hum of a ship. Only circulating air and silence.
You may not know what a brood is, but finding yours is easy. There are minds among these strangers that call to yours, their voices louder than the rest, their feelings sharper. The nearer to you they are, the more comfortable you feel. Is that strange? You don't know them, but you do. There are few answers to be found on the nesting deck.
Eventually you will have no choice but to head out of the room. There’s only one way out that you can see: up through a spiraling hallway that arches overhead. When it opens again the space seems slightly less alien. There are doorways of a kind lining the walls and each one opens to a small, nearly normal room. There are no doors, so it's easy to see all the rooms are vacant. In seventeen of them there are items neatly stacked on the bed. Most are hygiene supplies. Some of them - a toothbrush, comb, razor - may be familiar to you. Others less so. There's a flat horizontal ledge beside the bed with a small light and a single drawer. Another table, apparently built into the wall, sits across the room with a chair. A mirror is on the desk; it’s slightly mundane and not quite to the Station’s style.
This room is yours for the moment. It doesn't mean someone won't want to trade - or take. Beyond this life support deck stretches the rest of Station 72. It is quiet and and twisting and perfectly inert.
At its most familiar, the Station is merely a still, empty ship with broad chambers and gently mottled light. At its worst, it’s an Escher painting of strange angles and bizarre platforms that seems grown as much as built. There are many ways to many places and while it seems all doors and passages open to you, there’s an unshakeable feeling that the space doesn’t quite match up - that there’s even more to the Station which you can’t yet see. Don’t get lost!
For now, you reach the floor of the nesting deck. When you do, something blooms in your mind. A voice, disturbingly lacking any identifying traits but warm and comfortable like sweetened milk, says:
If you follow the thread of that voice, you’ll eventually find your way either to Cathaway on the bridge or The Prince in the training wing.
((OOC Notes: Welcome to Station 72! Feel free to check out the SETTINGS page for more information about the Station. If you have any questions about the setting itself, feel free to ask them there; otherwise, please direct all questions to either the FAQ or MOD CONTACT pages.
Happy hatchday, everyone! :) ))
Aoba Seragaki | DRAMAtical Murder | Adara Brood OTA
[ It's some time after he wakes, before Aoba comes down from his slot in the wall. He remembers what happened, and as much hard denial as he carries in his mind, there is no denying those final, terrifying moments on Midorijima and what he agreed to do about it. No room for doubt when he looks out and sees for himself the alien reality he's woken to. But reflection on what has happened and what is about to happen is not what keeps him from joining the noise (the silence) that calls him below.
Ren is not responding. A sense of panic radiates from his small chamber and replaces all comfort the symbiote offers as he tries and tries again to turn the little blue allmate on. Despair quickly settles in as each attempt fails. It's some time after he wakes, before Aoba comes down to join the others, because he's been crying.
It makes the headache that's spreading through the nerves in his hair so much worse. He's too heartsick to care if the pain is spreading through the network. When he's finally down the ladder and re-dressed in his garish neon blues, he's barely responsive. Cleaned up, eyes dried on his puffy sleeves but still red around the edges, and head throbbing.
Yes all of this is strange, out of this world, whatever you want to call it. It's confusing, it's too loud, it's too silent, it's making him dizzy, and what does any of it matter when his best friend isn't coming back online? Despite everything and everyone around, Aoba only has one question in foggy mind, and it's so loud over the symbiotic network he hardly needs to ask.
How do I fix my friend here?
Except it comes out- ]
Do you know if there's a computer around here I can borrow?
[ The two are related, really. ]
II. Boarding
[ There doesn't seem to be much he can do for Ren right now, and being heartsick isn't going to help him get over this headache. It's one of the worst he's had in a while, and for once it isn't his fault... at least not entirely. Aoba's already swallowed a third of the pills Granny left him with. They aren't helping.
He wanders to try and clear his mind of the noise and the silence all at once, making his way up the arching passageway to the hall of bedrooms. He doesn't like this place. It's too much like a hospital, (too much a reminder of the accident that put him there and made Granny worry so). Maybe he slept too much in that hole, or it's just his eyes feeling heavy from the crying he did earlier.
But he can't lay down or relax, not with the door wide open like that. Aoba sits on the edge of the bed, holding his head and mess of blue hair in his hands. The next time he
feelssees someoneabout towalk past, he calls out to them, voice friendly but a bit forced- ]Hey... could you maybe close the door for me? Thanks.
[ He hasn't noticed the lack of doors yet. ]
III. Wildcard
Let me know if there's something else you'd like to do with Aoba! Check out his permissions here!
( boarding. or should i say... BROOading. heh. )
In here, there is no scent. It makes him uneasy, even when there is a voice telling him in a comforting lullaby it is not. He wants to shake it off. Push it away. Get it off of him. And yet, he can't. Like something that sticks to you, a tick, a thorn, glue. It is a buzz that is only screaming louder as he walks past a door (was loud even before he passed by, even before he took that direction and he wanted to veer away from it, but somehow ended up close anyway). He stops at the entrance, a dirty thing, black against white, dirt and blood under his fingernails, dry blood splattered unevenly over his pale skin and his black clothes. His hand around his rucksack, the other in the pocket of his jacket. He stands there, back stiff and straight. Uncomfortably close to this kid. Like he is breathing over his ear, but they are too far apart for it to be like that.
He feels safe. He feels sick. He wants it to stop. ]
What door.
[ The same tone of "you are an idiot". ]
I walked into that one...
There... isn't.
[ It's not a question, because he already knows he was wrong. He didn't need to hear that tone to feel stupid; it's loud and clear what the other thinks of him, ringing in his ears like his breath and written all over the stare he doesn't need to see to feel. He remembers this feeling from the nesting deck and he shied away from it, too overloaded with grief for his allmate at the time. Now he puts on a brave face, a strained smile, hiding futilely behind it. ]
Heh, I feel stupid... sorry.
I'm Aoba.
[ He feels like he already knows. ]
at least u didnt walk into a door. cus there isn't one. /fingerguns
He does, however, take a careful step back (even with his body is telling him to press forward, go, it is safe, it is right-- but no, it isn't, this isn't him, there is something wrong, he is not like this, ever, and maybe having gone past the eighth hour did something to him and he has to stop and--). ]
I don't care.
[ It is harsher than he usually would be, even if he is usually harsh, but the constant noise, like a landline connection that keeps going off and on. He keeps his distance. He forces himself to want it. ]
Did you see an exit?
no subject
And then he's angry, temper quick to heat like a burner being switched. Grief and fear and pain aren't forgotten, but put aside to make room for the sudden, fouler mood. ]
You don't have to be so rude.
[ It's muttered low and half-whispered. He was just trying to be nice. ]
Uh... this Station is also a ship, isn't it? I don't think there is one unless we're not... flying, or whatever it does.
[ It's difficult to tell, there aren't any windows Aoba has seen in this place yet. Do you want to walk out of an air lock or something dude? Please do. Or don't, because he'd feel strangely compelled to drag him back out, but... no, go ahead. Don't go. Augh. ]
no subject
His words, however, bounce off of him like oil on water. Being called rude is something incredibly common.
Or, well, not so incredible because he is rude.
He squints. A station also a ship. Some kind of-- hangar? He doesn't remember getting here. He barely remembers anything but the infection spreading. It is a feeling he, somehow, shoves down, down, and reigns it in. Something he does not want to feel and does not want to share. ]
So, you don't know.
[ Another jab. He's not useful at all. ]
no subject
N... no.
[ He wants to shut this connection off. He can do it with some of the others, but not all of them. Why does this guy have to be one of the ones he can't shut out completely? ]
no subject
Parker makes a sound in the back of his throat - a grunt, more or less, clearly dissatisfied with the answer given. He flickers his eyes to the side, to the exit of this great room. Trying to keep an ear out to where it is most silent.
He looks back at Aoba again, this time with a much bigger ambition of shutting him the hell out. It's almost like straining too much your head until you get a headache but he is going to do so until a vein freaking pops or something similar. ]
Have you seen anyone that might know?
[ He may as well have said "make yourself useful for a change". What a rude dickhead. ]
no subject
No. Despite the pounding it causes in his head, his stubbornness muscles through to prevent the gap between their minds from widening. ]
Maybe I have.
[ Maybe if he were to apologize, Aoba would be nicer too. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
That's when she hears a new voice -- this one actually speaks aloud, and its a welcome distraction from her own thoughts. Ahsoka lifts her head to look in Aoba's direction and instinctively lifts her hand to assist before she realizes--]
Uh.
[She steps inside, just to see if she's missing something, before looking at him quizzically.]
Have you looked around lately?
no subject
[ Aoba looks up from where he was hunched over, still holding his head and... his eyes widen and his back straightens when he finally notices. ]
Eh? There's no door?
[ Seriously? How is he supposed to put music on, cozy up with this scratchy plain pillow, and ma-
Oh wow, he's just now realizing the girl in front of him is really, really young. At least he thinks so; he's never seen anyone who's... orange before, with a striped hat like hers. Not outside of video games anyway. To him, she looks so much like someone's custom allmate avatar that for a second he has to tell himself he's not in Rhyme... and to stop staring... and broadcasting his confusion at her appearance, he's probably being so rude. ]
Ah... sorry! I didn't mean to bug you for nothing. That was stupid...
no subject
[His incredible stream of mental feedback isn't charming -- in fact, it starts off immediately on the wrong foot when he chooses to notice her age, though what had prompted him to notice does not strike her. Why did everyone always focus on how young she was? Like it somehow made her lesser.
He'll likely feel her annoyance, in spite of the polite and cordial answer she offers him instead. After all, she was only trying to help -- she didn't come here to be annoyed, or belittled.]
I'm Ahsoka. And you don't have to apologize. If I thought it was stupid, then I would have kept walking.
[None of the things he likens her to make any sense without context, so she answers his unasked question. She's not tired of explaining, but some piece of her wilts every time she's reminded of how rare her people are in the wide expanse of the universe.]
Never seen togruta before? Don't worry -- you're not the first.
no subject
Right, sor- I mean... never mind.
[ No, stupid. She said not to apologize. He wishes Ren were here. Ren always knew how to help when his thoughts were all a jumbled mess.
He looks up again and tries to be better about how he sees her. Still unlike anyone he's ever seen, still young, but still a person. And when has he ever really cared about anyone's appearance? He should get to know her before passing anymore judgements, spoken or unspoken. ]
A torgruta? I... no, I haven't.
[ Alright, one more idle thought on her appearance passes through his mind. She's beautiful. It's innocent, with no attraction attached to it, but there is a small sense of cautious curiosity. ]
no subject
[Any further thoughts from her are successfully squashed backward. Though she was never particularly good at hiding her emotions (Thanks Anakin), she still had plenty of training from other masters that taught her when it was appropriate to express oneself and when it was considered inappropriate.
Right now, it felt inappropriate, even if he was innocently considering her appearance. Its hard for her to comprehend, makes her feel awkward. She's almost certain nobody had ever looked at her that way before--
Except for that Zygerrian slaver queen. She shakes her head immediately to banish that incredibly uncomfortable memory.]
So...you gonna introduce yourself, Blue, or should I keep walking?
no subject
Well, he hung around more girls when he was younger, (definitely, totally did, really) but... he doesn't have those memories anymore. ]
I'm Aoba.
[ About time. ]
Sorry if I was rude... guess this mental network thing makes it awkward for everyone.
no subject
[Its not really fine, but if there's one thing Ahsoka doesn't want to do today, its alienate herself even further. Everything is already so confusing and uncomfortable, and she had almost died just a few short hours ago. Its nice to not be entrenched in chaos, even if that means she's kind of stuck with another alien in her head that connects her to everyone around her.
There's worse things. Probably.]
I'm sure this wasn't how any one of us expected to spend our day.
[She takes a moment to check the hallway to make sure nobody is going to see her enter the room (because everything else is already weird, no need for witnesses to any additional weirdness). Normally, she might have asked but--well, things are already above the acceptable level of awkward, and its not going to get smoothed over if they don't take a decent crack at it.
So Ahsoka inhales, exhales, and tries to clear her mind of all the random noise before letting her eyelids flutter open to address Aoba.]
I'm just taking a shot in the dark here, but I'm guessing you haven't been able to read the thoughts of other's before now?
no subject
Uh... I... no.
[ It's a lie, but one he's quick to correct. There's no use in keeping Scrap a secret here, where mind-reading is... well, the new way they'll all be spending their days until further notice. ]
Well, not entirely. Sort of.
[ His turn to suddenly be made super uncomfortable. The last time he tried to delve into someone's mind he accidentally put them in the hospital, possibly forever. He never did find out if Mizuki was doing better before those creatures came. Granny didn't seem optimistic about his prognosis. ]
I can't do it without the possibility of causing a lot of suffering, and I don't have the best control over it. So I try not to do it.
Though you're right, just... the other way around. I've never been around others with the ability to read my thoughts.
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
1, i'm sorry
[Ares raises a brow as he glances up to Aoba, arms folded across his chest. This is all strange, the least people could do here is use words that make sense-- or ask questions they don't already know the answers to.
You don't fix a problem like that. The guy looks like he's been crying over it already, but apparently he's not ready to accept it; the emotions bleeding from Aoba are thoroughly uncomfortable, too much like things Ares really doesn't want to feel again, and it takes effort to try to ignore them.]
...whatever that is, I don't think it's gonna help.
no subject
A computer? I just need one to run some diagnostics.
[ It's a last ditch effort, anyway. He'd prefer the use of his computer at home, with all of it's data stored neatly for Ren, but he doesn't have that luxury here. Any computer will do, even one too advanced for him to understand. He'd learn, for Ren. He has to save Ren. Maybe the technology here is more advanced and can even help bring him back online faster. ]
It will help.
[ It has to. ]
no subject
...is it like, some kind of medic or something?
[Annnd that would be the something in question. If a computer's supposed to fix the guy's friend there, it's the best guess that Ares really has.]
I haven't seen anybody like that yet.
no subject
[ They're just going deeper into this confusion spiral together for another minute. This guy is drawing such a big blank, he can feel it as he gently prods him with the symbiote for information that just isn't there. That's when he finally realizes- ]
Wait... you really don't know what a computer is?
[ His voice goes up several octaves as he ends the question with a point of shock. He can't be from here, just woke up here like the rest of them, but just what kind of place doesn't have computers? Aoba is clearly having trouble processing, pun intended. Ares might as well have asked him what water or air is. ]
no subject
And gentle as it is, that prod is definitely unwelcome. Combining it with the shock at his lack of knowledge doesn't do any favors, either; Aoba will likely get a quick flare of temper bleeding through from Ares, one that doesn't immediately subside.]
Hey, you're the one making up words here, you don't have to sound so surprised about it!
[This is going to go well...]
no subject
I'm not making up words! Allmates are a type of personal computer that-
[ No. He stops, making a real effort to hold his tongue and keep from getting angrier. He really doesn't know these concepts, that much was obvious, and Aoba has to remind himself that it's probably not his fault. ]
Okay, what kinds of technology do you know about? Phones? Phones with cords? Calculators? Telegraphs?
[ He's trying not to sound too impatient, but seriously, how primitive are we getting here? He needs to know before he tries to explain anything else. ]
no subject
At least it's mostly just directed at him because he's convenient, not out of malice. Heated enough that he'll probably simmer down a little.
...probably.]
You're totally making things up! [He points an accusing finger at Aoba, there.] I've never heard of any of those.
no subject
[ Aoba is really trying here. Trying to recall the
sweetly rich, deep, and silky smoothsound of Ren's voice telling him to mind his attitude. So he's got to get more technologically primitive than he anticipated. Where can he even begin to explain...Maybe with computers, like he originally brought up. Ares clearly didn't like the intrusion of his mind, but they're still connected. Aoba's having a hard time keeping his cool in the face of the other's temper because of it. He can still focus enough to recall the interior of Heibon junk shop, where the oldest functioning computer he can think of sits at the register. It's ancient, all boxy and grey with a loud clackity keyboard, no projections built in for holo screens or light keys. ]
This is a computer.
[ He holds the image clearly as he can just at the edge of their connection, hoping it's not too... alien or something. ]
It's a machine that stores and processes data... er, information. They can connect to each other using wireless... um... invisible signals in the air. Think of it like a mechanical book, if books could connect to every other book and share all their information at once.
[ Terrible explanation, he knows, but it's the best he's got for someone who's literally a blank slate on the topic. He also knows better than to jab, but wow that temper is really boiling his right back. ]
You know what books are, right?
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)