[ open post | day:042 forward ]

[technologist]

CHARACTERS: Fitz + anyone on the station
WHERE: Station 72
WHEN: DAY:042+
SUMMARY: A bunch of open stuff, SOL to nightmare sharing. Covering bases for station downtime!! If you want to do something else, just hit me up on plurk or in PMs.
WARNINGS: Torture + will update as needed.

( a ) living quarters

[ The rooms all look the same, and even the ones featuring a few scattered belongings feel generic — there's no strong sense of personality, of ownership. He winds up checking out several that he decides aren't vacant, but only after a second of actual investigation. Maybe the bed's made differently; maybe there's an extra pillow, or a glass of water, half empty. It isn't like they've got posters and names on the doors (or doors at all).

Any interruption's met by him stepping away from whatever he's looking at and turning towards the doorway, lightly startled. ]

Sorry— is this yours?

[ He seems calm, but his control of the mental link is frayed by inexperience; curiosity, melancholy, a professional sort of caution. It all leaks through clearly. ]

( b ) everywhere else

[ He doesn't want to be here. He wants to scream and break something or someone until he's anywhere else, back on Earth or back where Earth used to be, wherever Jemma is, but that isn't what Fitz does: he falls in with routine, keeps his own clock and a schedule that's a decent imitation of a day-night cycle, and he studies the ship.

He splits most of his time between the utilities department and the nest, though it's easy to catch him almost anywhere. Deconstructing tech if he can get away with it, or simply taking a close look at it if it seems too essential to mess with. Even when he's in the kitchens, absently snacking on whatever finger food they've got on hand, he'll occasionally become distracted by a panel in a wall or a refrigeration unit.

If he's interrupted he'll offer a very brief smile or a nod in greeting, fine with the break from his own dogged focus; or maybe you just happen to be nearby when he crosses the wrong wires and causes something to spark, prompting a sharply annoyed— ]

Hell.

( c ) night

[ He's bad at controlling his thoughts. During the day, they're transparent and scattered and sometimes intense, but he's still self-aware, reasonable, careful. They aren't quiet, but they do feel contained. At night, the sense of containment doesn't leave — it's still there, solid, stifling. It doesn't keep the thoughts out. It feels like a cage, keeping you in.

( C-1 ) Sometimes you're trapped — you're in a small room, 10x10", the air too heavy in your lungs. There's one window, also small; outside it's only water, dark and infinite before it crashes in, loud enough to feel and then so heavy that it's crushing, tearing the air from your lungs until everything's quiet. The room changes, utilities and computers and the hum of electronics, lights flashing dimly at your back. Your arms are tied down, plastic cutting into wrists and you can hear her screaming, and you can't move — you can't help her, and then you're the one screaming, reaching, trying to get to her as she looks straight through you. She can't hear you —

( C-2 ) Sometimes you're wearing a suit that you can't quite keep clean, and she's someone else, holding you down and kissing you and you're kissing her back. Someone's screaming. You don't care. You're in a lab, white and sterile. The clear curtain separates you from the metal table, the robotic arms that shift above it as they follow their programming, surgical. When you look up at the body writhing on the table, straining against its bonds and crackling under the heat of a laser, you see numbers. You see genetics, code. A piece of equipment that can be stripped and remade into something useful —

( C-3 ) — a man's face, the sound of him saying goodbye over distorted audio. His blood on the lab table, on your hands. You're in an underground bunker, dark steel and dirt. When the water floods in this time it's guilt, and when you can't breathe it's because of panic, and then you hear your father's disappointment despite the lack of words to carry it. And then you're putting a bullet in her leg, and then you're screaming because she won't look at you; she's gone. She's someone else again, hair darker, and her face is burning up from the inside, melting —

And again, desperation and detachment and guilt until something interrupts. ]

Comments

[theycalledmeacurse]

[ Trapped. That makes it sound so much better than it was. Like she'd had a hope of escape, that she pulled in by some underground organization and held illegally. But everything she'd experienced had been sanctioned by the government, every government. ] I was a prisoner.

[ Her voice wavers as she corrects him on that fine nuance, watching his expression with something akin to caution, but there's more to it. She can feel something from him, she sees that figure that isn't there on the table. The face bleeds into all the others she's seen there, hundreds of people wheeled into the room over the years, but— It's not a face she recognizes. That man isn't tucked away in her mind. So she asks this stranger she'll forever be connected to: ]

What did you do, sugar?

[technologist]

[ His sympathy's nearly as tangible as the fear. It's hard to look at the table and the tools because of what they did to her — and because of what he did, a disorienting loop.

Is she afraid of him? He can't separate that look from the fear soaking the room, and his gaze drops at the question. There's a lurch of panic with it, like a violent twist of vertigo that hits before it's covered up, muffled. He can't escape his emotions, but it isn't like he's a stranger to them. He just has to focus, keep them under control. ]

I didn't— [ Denial and guilt. His heart's not in it, and he makes himself look at her before he continues. ] I killed people. His name was Lincoln Campbell. He was a— friend.

[ A test subject. His sentences are halting, conflicted and something else. Solid, blank walls before his thoughts are rerouted. The pause before his next words is more intentional, earnest and pointed. ] But I'm no threat. Not to you.

[ He isn't. He doesn't mean to be. He's telling the truth, she'll be able to feel that; it's just tainted by self doubt. ]

[theycalledmeacurse]

I believe you. [ She hadn't felt anything malicious from him since they entered this strange nightmare, nothing like the many villainous minds she'd absorbed during the war and even before then. True evil has a harsh sting as it settles in the mind, a prickling as the tendrils take root like parasitic vines. There's something in him that she doesn't understand, but it doesn't feel like those others. Not quite. But it's confusing and she doesn't understand. ]

Why— [ The words die on her tongue, disappearing into fog as a screeching comes from the distance and that round door opens, slipping in the middle. Another screech of metal, a low droning tone, and a scream that cuts off abruptly. Her fear settles into something thick on the tongue and she reaches out to grab his hand with her own bare one. ] We have to go.

[ It doesn't matter that this is a dream, her instincts are saying to run and she won't leave him behind, no matter who he is. ]

crawls back in here

[technologist]

[ Her trust is met with a pang of disappointment. He's telling the truth, he isn't a threat — he means it, but he doesn't believe it. He needs her to trust him, wants her to; she still shouldn't, and that cold awareness cuts through any relief her answer might bring.

But he doesn't have time to dwell. Fitz's focus snaps back to the door as it splits. He can't see anything. The sounds are familiar, somehow — machines, tech. Screaming. Fitz is backing towards her without thinking, and he doesn't pull back when she grabs his hand, just hesitates for a panicked second before following her cue. ]

What— [ Does it matter what it is? Probably not. It's just fear. Fear that cuts his thoughts off, causes him to lose track of the sentence and then give up on it entirely. ]