CHARACTERS: Drift and VARIOUS LOCATION: around the station DATE: Mid February CONTENT: That post-mission funk WARNINGS: EDIT: ah shit the robots are fucking again
[ Drift hadn't properly recharged in over a month now. Not a serious concern considering he had been working on low-power until the last leg of the mission. Only now, he was feeling the drowning pull of exhaustion seeping into every part of him. His living quarters should have been his first stop, but with the steadfast loyalty of a hound, he haunted the infirmary as Leonard McCoy's sullen shadow instead.
— An easier task than usual, now that Leonard was a patient rather than a provider.
Mass-shifted back to the more manageable three meters, Drift still had to be mindful of his size. Any parts of his removable warframe armor had been shed, so wedging himself between the wall and McCoy's infirmary bed was feasible. It was still impossible not to loom, to take up a large space in an already tightly-packed station wing. Still, DRift could not be persuaded to be anywhere else. Others have tried, but his vigil had started shortly after their return, and there had yet to be any interlude since.
Head gently resting on the foot of the bed, Drift was careful not to put too much weight on McCoy's legs. Machines beeped in chorus what the slow rise and fall of McCoy's steadily breathing chest. He was out of the woods, but no one just walked off a gunshot wound. Humans were all so frighteningly fragile but endured with seemingly contradictory tenacity. It was admirable, it was currently terrifying Drift anytime too many seconds passed and he hadn't counted McCoy's breaths. Drift almost broke his vigil, well, drifting off when McCoy stirred. ]
( Returning had been a confused nightmare of motion, of tumult on the transporter pad. He couldn't quite remember what happened between sitting down on a bed and waking up, the pieces all there but jumbled, and to be honest? He didn't care to.
Bones finds the IV pad in the crook of his arm, traces the line out where it falls off the side of the bed, presumably to whatever fluids he'd hurriedly instructed Jim to grab. The infirmary is quiet. For mercy much thanks, he thinks groggily, and opens his eyes at last.
He expected to see Jim, but the dust-coated jacket slung over the chair says he isn't far. The weight at the foot of his bed is easy to identify, even in the low light: Drift.
McCoy feels his gut clench, not something he can help, as uncertainty wars with sympathetic concern. The latter wins out, like it always does, and he brushes his fingertips to the bot's shoulder. )
[ The infinitesimal redistribution of weight on the bed was enough to rouse Drift, even before McCoy's thigh nudged his chin from beneath the sheets. With a low murmur, Drift blinked back the cobwebs of a half-formed dream. He was more exhausted than he thought, but the waking figure in the bed crystallized his focus.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Drift keeping his head bowed low on the mattress as he tried to think of what to say when he wasn't even sure what to feel.
McCoy had some...some pretty terrible facets of her personality that Drift had long struggled to keep buried with the former as the catalyst. Voice rough, the best Drift manages is: ]
I'm fine now. Need me to get anyone?
[ The unspoken "should I go" is a question that hangs in the air. ]
( Drift looked like he wanted to sink through the mattress and right into the floor. Possibly further– Bones has a sudden image of him falling away from the station, slow and serene into cold darkness. His brows knit. )
I hate that phrase. You're not fine. ( It's no accusation; there's no heat, just weary truth, catching in his throat. ) No one here is fine.
( They need to talk. They have to. He's not glossing over what happened, just processing it, along with everything else that's happened the past day, the layered mix of horrors. His side twinges, a phantom ache.
McCoy ensures he's got enough slack on the line and scoots down the bed to fold his arms around Drift's head, mindful of all his edges, and press his face close. )
Tired platitudes aside, arguably no one is here in the first place because they're fine. [ A station populated by the remorseful and the regretful. By sheer virtue of being here was a scarlett letter of maladjustment.
Drift didn't have an argument in him, and he doubts McCoy needed to be reminded that his well-being was a more immediate concern.
Resolve burned away with all his brutal anger, Drift doesn't pull away. As McCoy was cautious of Drift's edges, Drift had the hesitation stepping out onto a frozen lake where he could hold an injured man. One arm slide up onto the bed, loosely curled behind McCoy's back. He gently nudges at McCoy's chest that smells of antiseptic and the too-bleached patient gown that scratches against him.
Quietly, pitfully, Drift confesses what they both already knew. ]
I can't lose anyone again, Leonard. There's not that much left of me to hold together.
( Drift is all broad, hard angles compared to any organic being, but he's warm too, and achingly delicate for all his metal bulk.
Leonard strokes his cheek and doesn't foolishly promise anything, because he can't. )
Tell me about him?
( Bones has guessed at it, bit by bit, gathering clues like a breadcrumb trail, or Ariadne's string, winding his way carefully back through the maze. He's known enough of his own grief, of others' grief, to see its workings in Drift and wonder quietly at its source.
He thinks a piece of himself would die if he lost Jim again. Not in the physical sense, but spiritually, emotionally. If souls exist, he's leashed some intrinsic part of his own to Jim's, paradoxically stronger for it just as he's made himself that much more vulnerable. He's only thirty-six, and they've only known one another for eight years. What would love feel like at a million years? Two? Three? How intertwined would their lives be, if they were as ancient as the stars?
How devastating would it be to sever that link forever? )
[ Less than seventy-two hours had passed since they returned from Scorpion's Bend. Barely enough time to process what had happened, but just enough, the skeletal framework of a routine started to establish itself. Entirely possible, if not the most likely explanation, was that everyone was in various states of shock and just going through the motions on some hindbrain instinct for self-preservation. Drift couldn't claim to be above the median there. Having had only recently emerged from his vigil in the infirmary and not entirely of his own volition. ]
This is irony in its worst iteration. [ He and Megatron were in Drift's quarters having what could only be described as a debriefing. Neither of them had been present for the last leg of the journey, and only now had they found the time to convene. Drift had just finished replaying Vivica and the Commander's words to the crew and stood staring at a blank wall. His posture pulled taut like he wanted to throw something. ]
How many planets have you or I destroyed without lifting a finger, if you had to guess? [ Drift turned and looked at Megatron, at first the question coming off as non-sequitur before he continued. ]
The one time, the only time nuking that rock until only dust and echoes remained in the vacuum of space would be a mercy — and we don't have the wherewithal to do it. [ He sneers, arms crossed tight across his chest as though holding himself back from doing something he'll only regret later. ]
[ The only thing had descended into chaos. Megatron, by virtue of being one of the only medically inclined members of the team still standing, had been working overtime even before they were dragged back to the station. Then it had been touch and go trying to get everyone settled, fed, and looked after. It was only now, after too brief a rest, that he was beginning to process all that had happened. Megatron's broad frame rests uneasily in a chair that really shouldn't hold a couple tons of metal and yet it does. She leans back, peering down at the datapad in his hands as if it held answers. It doesn't, of course. ]
Dozens, at least. Perhaps hundreds, though it depends on if we count inhabitated worlds with native populations or also lifeless husks that had significant energy sources as well.
[ He says it with a morose sort of detachment. It's not clinical, more like he's reciting the numbers from an obituary column. Resigned, and still heavy with a sense of grief and responsibility. ]
I count it a small mercy that everyone made it back alive, though I can't say one piece. I can only hope we never have another like that again. Organics are remarkably difficult to repair.
[ He sounds even more tired when he says that. ]
Perhaps we should take this as instructive. What price will be asked of us, when it finally comes our turn to have a regret undone?
I can't help but feel like we just got a front-row seat of the old infiltration protocol and barged in on act three of phase six. [ Drift doesn't make the comment to hurt or dredge up old memories. The established tone of the conversation was mutually detached.
Drift visibly stiffens with a flush of shame coursing through him he's not yet prepared to process at the mention of organics. If he let his concentration slip, he could still feel the thrum of the lives being snuffed out in his grasp or feel one in particular nearly slipping away. He tellingly drops that thread of the conversation before doubling down on an argument they must have had a dozen times over by now. ]
No one's dropped out of the race yet. I'm trying not to hold one orb's malicious intent as the standard once they're all together.
[ Megatron simply sighs. To tell the truth, there's relief in the fact that Drift is changing the subject. He really has no dsire to go over the details of the infiltration protocol or the particulars of what both of them did on the dusty surface of the planet. ]
We have only the evidence of our experiences in this case. I'm not telling you to give up. I'm merely asking you to consider what you're willing to pay just for another coin-toss.
[ Megatron considers himself essentially dead already, so he of course doesn't need to worry. ]
[ That sigh may as well have been the nail in the coffin on the conversation. Neither of them necessarily wanted to 'reminiscence,' but it was hard when, really, Megatron was all Drift had for a contemporary.
What doesn't help is Drift isn't sure what he wants. Either out of this discussion or from Megatron being here. They pointedly had yet to bring up Drift's reaction to McCoy being shot or Megatron's relation to Drift nearly being killed himself.
Instead of arguing, Drift only shakes his head and looks back at Megatron with resignation that mirrors the other's. ]
We both know there's no answer I can give you that will have you leaving here satisfied.
[ After sixty-three hours and twenty minutes to the second since their return did, Drift finally ends his wholly unnecessary and near-suffocating watch in the infirmary. Everyone had made it out relatively in one piece. He had no excuse. It was only when his own demons were concussed from a dull roar to a quiet whimper that he excused himself from the crowd.
His true body had retired to his personal suite, but his holoform emerged back into the halls like a slinking cat. At first, it had just been making the rounds just to confirm all was well for the umpteenth time. That had turned into a detour into the kitchens that turned into a detour to the common room.
Three sniffs deep in high-grade, Drift sets a whiskey bottle down on the common area's low table. There is no sway or stagger in his gait as he calmly sits down across from the room's sole occupant and fellow insomniac interloper. He pushes the bottle and a plastic glass in the Darkling's direction. Very casually and almost too mechanically with no lights on upstairs in the eyes, Drift starts a conversation. ]
[Returning to the sterile environment of the station, after so long on the desert planet, is a shock to the system. A another unwelcomed and jarring experience in a long line of grating experiences, that do nothing more than make him want to hole up somewhere and wait for the next mission.
Jumping from one mission to the next, keeping busy and unthinking, until he can get the reward he so rightly deserves.
Sitting in the common area, the half-empty bottle of kvas from Daisy sitting on the low table in front of him, the Darkling sits, shifter of it cradled in his hands and elbows braced against his knees, drowning the thoughts in the harsh burn of alcohol.]
That doesn't even make any sense.
[Voice floating from far away, as empty as his glass is about to be as his eyes find Drift's face in the low lights.]
You know how to drink, but you really should learn to drive. [ Drift drops down into the chair without waiting to be invited. His seat is catty-cornered to the one Darkling occupied, perched with all the welcoming air of a castle gargoyle suffocated by moss.
He nods to the bottle, twist cap still sealed. ]
An apology. [ A beat and Drift explains, ] For making you scream.
I know how to ride. Driving- [rolling the word around in his mouth, unfamiliar and foreign on his tongue as he turns slowly to watch Drift take a seat.
Or, faking it. This isn't Drift anymore than he's the shadows that slink along the edges of the room.] is new.
Thank you. It doesn't happen often, and I find myself unused to it after so long.
[Rolling the glass between the palms of his hand] How fast can you go? Compared to a horse.
And? You're not over the hill yet, I think. [ That I think lilts at the end, almost like a question. Drift has no idea exactly how old the Darkling is or how much of his unnaturally long life he has left before him. ] I think the phrase is: Old dogs can learn new tricks?
[ Drift nods and relexaes, arms crossed over his mid section. ] First time for everything.
[ Drift pulls a face at the question. ] Compared to a horse? I was born a racer and life had other plans but I'd like to think you've raised the bar a little after firsthand experience.
Without risking a person's safety, then I'd say six, seven hundred kilometers per hour—eight when I was slimmer if I'm being honest.
[ The coffee machine rumbled and hissed as the rivulets of a fresh brew startled to fall into the glass pot. Within moments the air in the room hung heavy with that all to the familiar smell of fresh coffee — and the slightly burnt smell of older grounds clinging to the bottom of the filter because no one ever cleaned it. Of course, it wasn't homemade coffee without that acrid aftertaste.
Drift had no opinion on the matter when it came to what coffee tasted like, but the aroma had grown on him. One thing humans and biomechanical life had in common was how hardwired their sense of smell was to memory recall. He couldn't count the number of times someone trudged into the kitchens, bleary-eyed and disoriented, reflexively remarking how "even the coffee here is bad, just like home" with unmistakable fondness. Apparently, the more atrocious or altered until it was unrecognizable coffee was the better. Humans.
— Not that he could really pass judgment. Here he was, making coffee that he can't drink because the smell reminded him of when the station's atmosphere wasn't so suffocated by the shock of a mission gone south. Trying to entice the others out of their collective fugue state with something familiar.
Drift already had a mug on the counter when someone had taken the benignly set bait. His attention pulled from the book he was reading where he sat by the kitchen island, mouth hanging half-open in a greeting that goes mute before the first syllable forms. A pause, a wrinkle between his brow as his expression pinches in confusion before relaxing in dull surprise. ]
[ Although Yennefer is less familiar with the beverage being made, something about it attracts her notice — the absolute pungency that fills the space in the kitchen where she is currently standing off to one side, turning over what she believes to be an apple between both hands without actually having bitten into it yet. In spite of the mess being one of the more popular spaces on the station in terms of people coming and going, few of them seem to stop and speak with one another even in passing — which strikes her as somewhat strange, but certainly not enough to involve herself in any of those interactions when she has no personal stake or firm opinion in the matter.
She scrunches up her nose at the burned smell, once and then again when it only seems to worsen, and glances up from her seat in an attempt to track it to its source, potentially even with the aim of trying to get rid of whatever's creating such a foul odor.
What's more, the man responsible for having made this concoction seems entirely oblivious to the stench he's created, and Yennefer glances over him with a slightly raised duo of eyebrows, bracing one hand against the kitchen block that stands between them before looking between him and the mug he's set down that has clearly been untouched. ]
And you've crafted something that smells absolutely horrid. Are we beginning by stating the obvious? [ She doesn't snap about it, not when her earlier argument with Billy had been the primary conductor for most of her frustrations, and not when the drink in question can be easily disposed of if necessary. ]
[ While she didn't chew his head off his shoulders, the woman who came into the kitchens arrived with a fire already lit under both heels. Drift slowly closed the book he had been reading, as though she was a sound triggered incendiary device. After everything he's seen, why not?
Easy as it would have been to go on the defensive, Drift is quick to remember that she is new. That her toss of the coin hadn't landed in her favor and she arrived when the others were disinclined to roll out the welcome wagon. ]
Not a coffee drinker? I'm right there with you. [ Drift replied to be congenial and hopefully inject some needed levity into the situation. ]
Most people here are addicted to the stuff you'd think they took it intravenously. I can make you something else.
[ It's not a judging question, but one voiced with a modicum of curiosity; if he has made the drink solely with the intention of warding people off, then that she could understand.
What comes as more of a surprise to her is learning that there are those who actually prefer this drink, and in response she reaches for the mug, fingers wrapping around the warmed ceramic and lifting it up toward her nose for a discerning sniff, which immediately prompts another expression of disgust, and she places it back down even more quickly than she had first plucked it up. ]
Does this place have anything that even remotely resembles tea?
People have a wonderful turn of saying about attracting more flies with honey than vinegar. [ Drift was incredibly cautious of his word choice here. ('People' and not 'humans.') While he never exactly lied about who or what he was, he preferred to ease people into the idea overall. Newcomers had enough on their plate, and it was near-impossible to read the room how they could digest 'living machine' on top of everything else.
He pushes himself up from the table and moves with the purposeful caution of a man who knows he's being gauged. Casual but steady movements as he steps around the kitchen island and reaches for the tin labeled 'TEA' on the counter. ]
Unfortunately, most here love the vinegar. [ He holds the tin by its base after screwing off the twist top. Inspecting it for a moment too long as if trying to divine its contents. ]
...Very Berry, Passion Mango Twist, Sleepy Time, or Black?
joe is sleep rumpled and unfocused, hair surprisingly tidy albeit smooshed on one side, looking honestly more asleep than awake. he hasn't even put his boots on, shuffling to the kitchen in slippers andy handed him when he woke up with his head in her lap and curls being twisted into shape between her fingers, sunlight streaming through the trees. she'd shoved him toward the kitchen whilst laughing in his face. if 900 years didn't make him a morning person, space certainly wasn't going to.
he pours the coffee into the mug and takes a sip without so much as blowing on it, immediately making a face. nope, no. that is unbearable. he sets the mug down and turns to the cabinets to rifle through them. he knows he was asked something and he knows he should answer but his brain is currently occupied with trying to remember the third line of a poem he wrote in 1252 because clearly this is the most important thing on earth (or off it) to remember at this exact moment in time, but like a song you only know half the lyrics to, it's going to stay stuck in his head until he figures out the line. ]
Something about ducks, [ he murmurs under his breath. after a few minutes, he has a cup of mint tea steeping and he goes back to the coffee to finish it because he doesn't know how to waste food. ]
[ Contrary to popular belief, Drift understood not being a "morning person" as well as anyone. He knew a sworn enemy of the risen sun or blaring alarm when he saw one. A byproduct from having been married to a doctor with a self-destructive rest schedule for longer most here had even been alive. The new face that barely had the active brain cells to rub together to even notice someone else in the room is what Drift would categorize as 'Dead on Arrival.'
Drift watches the other man navigate the kitchen with the grace of a bumper car in polite silence. First, observing the interesting journey his face took as it went through the stages of grief when trying to coffee. Debating if he should say something only for the man to meander towards the tea. In the interim Drift found himself fidgeting. One hand picks at one corner of the book before settling for spinning the gold band on the wrong ring finger. Pausing on one rotation when the man found the use of his larynx. ]
Good morning, Joe. I'm Drift. Coffee not your thing? [ Drift wasn't even going to pretend he could parse the comment about ducks. This man clearly arrived fresh from the territory of his own dreams. ]
[ joe grumbles something that sounds like ] This shit would make Ali ben Omar cry. [ but could just as easily have been an order for wonton soup in german for how petulantly muffled the words are. still, he is drinking the coffee, shit coffee is not going to stop centuries of habit and it's honestly not the worst he has ever had.
one time he and andy ate instant coffee dry. as it turns out, that is not how instant coffee is prepared.
he takes a deep breath, a steadying exhale. how do brains work this early? what kind of psychopath is awake this early — this early being a completely appropriate morning hour to be awake. the answer, of course, is his beloved partner and new baby sister still running on us military time. ]
Friend of yours? [ Drift paused his mindless fidgeting and looked up. It sounded somewhat like a sacrilegious curse, or an inside joke. He liked to believe he kept up with the philosophors and messiahs that were in vogue, but he sometimes missed the mark. Humans weren't short on religions or people with big ideas that was for sure. ]
Not mine either, but I'm sorry to say you've found us when we're all a little burnt out. Thought I'd do something to rouse everyone.
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CLOSED to Leonard McCoy
— An easier task than usual, now that Leonard was a patient rather than a provider.
Mass-shifted back to the more manageable three meters, Drift still had to be mindful of his size. Any parts of his removable warframe armor had been shed, so wedging himself between the wall and McCoy's infirmary bed was feasible. It was still impossible not to loom, to take up a large space in an already tightly-packed station wing. Still, DRift could not be persuaded to be anywhere else. Others have tried, but his vigil had started shortly after their return, and there had yet to be any interlude since.
Head gently resting on the foot of the bed, Drift was careful not to put too much weight on McCoy's legs. Machines beeped in chorus what the slow rise and fall of McCoy's steadily breathing chest. He was out of the woods, but no one just walked off a gunshot wound. Humans were all so frighteningly fragile but endured with seemingly contradictory tenacity. It was admirable, it was currently terrifying Drift anytime too many seconds passed and he hadn't counted McCoy's breaths. Drift almost broke his vigil, well, drifting off when McCoy stirred. ]
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Bones finds the IV pad in the crook of his arm, traces the line out where it falls off the side of the bed, presumably to whatever fluids he'd hurriedly instructed Jim to grab. The infirmary is quiet. For mercy much thanks, he thinks groggily, and opens his eyes at last.
He expected to see Jim, but the dust-coated jacket slung over the chair says he isn't far. The weight at the foot of his bed is easy to identify, even in the low light: Drift.
McCoy feels his gut clench, not something he can help, as uncertainty wars with sympathetic concern. The latter wins out, like it always does, and he brushes his fingertips to the bot's shoulder. )
I can't imagine that's comfortable.
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For a moment, they just stared at each other. Drift keeping his head bowed low on the mattress as he tried to think of what to say when he wasn't even sure what to feel.
McCoy had some...some pretty terrible facets of her personality that Drift had long struggled to keep buried with the former as the catalyst. Voice rough, the best Drift manages is: ]
I'm fine now. Need me to get anyone?
[ The unspoken "should I go" is a question that hangs in the air. ]
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I hate that phrase. You're not fine. ( It's no accusation; there's no heat, just weary truth, catching in his throat. ) No one here is fine.
( They need to talk. They have to. He's not glossing over what happened, just processing it, along with everything else that's happened the past day, the layered mix of horrors. His side twinges, a phantom ache.
McCoy ensures he's got enough slack on the line and scoots down the bed to fold his arms around Drift's head, mindful of all his edges, and press his face close. )
Don't tell me you're fine unless you mean it.
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Drift didn't have an argument in him, and he doubts McCoy needed to be reminded that his well-being was a more immediate concern.
Resolve burned away with all his brutal anger, Drift doesn't pull away. As McCoy was cautious of Drift's edges, Drift had the hesitation stepping out onto a frozen lake where he could hold an injured man. One arm slide up onto the bed, loosely curled behind McCoy's back. He gently nudges at McCoy's chest that smells of antiseptic and the too-bleached patient gown that scratches against him.
Quietly, pitfully, Drift confesses what they both already knew. ]
I can't lose anyone again, Leonard. There's not that much left of me to hold together.
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Leonard strokes his cheek and doesn't foolishly promise anything, because he can't. )
Tell me about him?
( Bones has guessed at it, bit by bit, gathering clues like a breadcrumb trail, or Ariadne's string, winding his way carefully back through the maze. He's known enough of his own grief, of others' grief, to see its workings in Drift and wonder quietly at its source.
He thinks a piece of himself would die if he lost Jim again. Not in the physical sense, but spiritually, emotionally. If souls exist, he's leashed some intrinsic part of his own to Jim's, paradoxically stronger for it just as he's made himself that much more vulnerable. He's only thirty-six, and they've only known one another for eight years. What would love feel like at a million years? Two? Three? How intertwined would their lives be, if they were as ancient as the stars?
How devastating would it be to sever that link forever? )
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CLOSED to Megatron
This is irony in its worst iteration. [ He and Megatron were in Drift's quarters having what could only be described as a debriefing. Neither of them had been present for the last leg of the journey, and only now had they found the time to convene. Drift had just finished replaying Vivica and the Commander's words to the crew and stood staring at a blank wall. His posture pulled taut like he wanted to throw something. ]
How many planets have you or I destroyed without lifting a finger, if you had to guess? [ Drift turned and looked at Megatron, at first the question coming off as non-sequitur before he continued. ]
The one time, the only time nuking that rock until only dust and echoes remained in the vacuum of space would be a mercy — and we don't have the wherewithal to do it. [ He sneers, arms crossed tight across his chest as though holding himself back from doing something he'll only regret later. ]
Pyrrhic doesn't even begin to describe it.
Re: CLOSED to Megatron
Dozens, at least. Perhaps hundreds, though it depends on if we count inhabitated worlds with native populations or also lifeless husks that had significant energy sources as well.
[ He says it with a morose sort of detachment. It's not clinical, more like he's reciting the numbers from an obituary column. Resigned, and still heavy with a sense of grief and responsibility. ]
I count it a small mercy that everyone made it back alive, though I can't say one piece. I can only hope we never have another like that again. Organics are remarkably difficult to repair.
[ He sounds even more tired when he says that. ]
Perhaps we should take this as instructive. What price will be asked of us, when it finally comes our turn to have a regret undone?
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Drift visibly stiffens with a flush of shame coursing through him he's not yet prepared to process at the mention of organics. If he let his concentration slip, he could still feel the thrum of the lives being snuffed out in his grasp or feel one in particular nearly slipping away. He tellingly drops that thread of the conversation before doubling down on an argument they must have had a dozen times over by now. ]
No one's dropped out of the race yet. I'm trying not to hold one orb's malicious intent as the standard once they're all together.
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We have only the evidence of our experiences in this case. I'm not telling you to give up. I'm merely asking you to consider what you're willing to pay just for another coin-toss.
[ Megatron considers himself essentially dead already, so he of course doesn't need to worry. ]
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What doesn't help is Drift isn't sure what he wants. Either out of this discussion or from Megatron being here. They pointedly had yet to bring up Drift's reaction to McCoy being shot or Megatron's relation to Drift nearly being killed himself.
Instead of arguing, Drift only shakes his head and looks back at Megatron with resignation that mirrors the other's. ]
We both know there's no answer I can give you that will have you leaving here satisfied.
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CLOSED to The Darkling
His true body had retired to his personal suite, but his holoform emerged back into the halls like a slinking cat. At first, it had just been making the rounds just to confirm all was well for the umpteenth time. That had turned into a detour into the kitchens that turned into a detour to the common room.
Three sniffs deep in high-grade, Drift sets a whiskey bottle down on the common area's low table. There is no sway or stagger in his gait as he calmly sits down across from the room's sole occupant and fellow insomniac interloper. He pushes the bottle and a plastic glass in the Darkling's direction. Very casually and almost too mechanically with no lights on upstairs in the eyes, Drift starts a conversation. ]
Want to learn to drink and drive?
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Jumping from one mission to the next, keeping busy and unthinking, until he can get the reward he so rightly deserves.
Sitting in the common area, the half-empty bottle of kvas from Daisy sitting on the low table in front of him, the Darkling sits, shifter of it cradled in his hands and elbows braced against his knees, drowning the thoughts in the harsh burn of alcohol.]
That doesn't even make any sense.
[Voice floating from far away, as empty as his glass is about to be as his eyes find Drift's face in the low lights.]
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He nods to the bottle, twist cap still sealed. ]
An apology. [ A beat and Drift explains, ] For making you scream.
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Or, faking it. This isn't Drift anymore than he's the shadows that slink along the edges of the room.] is new.
Thank you. It doesn't happen often, and I find myself unused to it after so long.
[Rolling the glass between the palms of his hand] How fast can you go? Compared to a horse.
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[ Drift nods and relexaes, arms crossed over his mid section. ] First time for everything.
[ Drift pulls a face at the question. ] Compared to a horse? I was born a racer and life had other plans but I'd like to think you've raised the bar a little after firsthand experience.
Without risking a person's safety, then I'd say six, seven hundred kilometers per hour—eight when I was slimmer if I'm being honest.
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semi-closed | the kitchens | welcome to old people camp
Drift had no opinion on the matter when it came to what coffee tasted like, but the aroma had grown on him. One thing humans and biomechanical life had in common was how hardwired their sense of smell was to memory recall. He couldn't count the number of times someone trudged into the kitchens, bleary-eyed and disoriented, reflexively remarking how "even the coffee here is bad, just like home" with unmistakable fondness. Apparently, the more atrocious or altered until it was unrecognizable coffee was the better. Humans.
— Not that he could really pass judgment. Here he was, making coffee that he can't drink because the smell reminded him of when the station's atmosphere wasn't so suffocated by the shock of a mission gone south. Trying to entice the others out of their collective fugue state with something familiar.
Drift already had a mug on the counter when someone had taken the benignly set bait. His attention pulled from the book he was reading where he sat by the kitchen island, mouth hanging half-open in a greeting that goes mute before the first syllable forms. A pause, a wrinkle between his brow as his expression pinches in confusion before relaxing in dull surprise. ]
You're a new arrival.
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She scrunches up her nose at the burned smell, once and then again when it only seems to worsen, and glances up from her seat in an attempt to track it to its source, potentially even with the aim of trying to get rid of whatever's creating such a foul odor.
What's more, the man responsible for having made this concoction seems entirely oblivious to the stench he's created, and Yennefer glances over him with a slightly raised duo of eyebrows, bracing one hand against the kitchen block that stands between them before looking between him and the mug he's set down that has clearly been untouched. ]
And you've crafted something that smells absolutely horrid. Are we beginning by stating the obvious? [ She doesn't snap about it, not when her earlier argument with Billy had been the primary conductor for most of her frustrations, and not when the drink in question can be easily disposed of if necessary. ]
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Easy as it would have been to go on the defensive, Drift is quick to remember that she is new. That her toss of the coin hadn't landed in her favor and she arrived when the others were disinclined to roll out the welcome wagon. ]
Not a coffee drinker? I'm right there with you. [ Drift replied to be congenial and hopefully inject some needed levity into the situation. ]
Most people here are addicted to the stuff you'd think they took it intravenously. I can make you something else.
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[ It's not a judging question, but one voiced with a modicum of curiosity; if he has made the drink solely with the intention of warding people off, then that she could understand.
What comes as more of a surprise to her is learning that there are those who actually prefer this drink, and in response she reaches for the mug, fingers wrapping around the warmed ceramic and lifting it up toward her nose for a discerning sniff, which immediately prompts another expression of disgust, and she places it back down even more quickly than she had first plucked it up. ]
Does this place have anything that even remotely resembles tea?
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He pushes himself up from the table and moves with the purposeful caution of a man who knows he's being gauged. Casual but steady movements as he steps around the kitchen island and reaches for the tin labeled 'TEA' on the counter. ]
Unfortunately, most here love the vinegar. [ He holds the tin by its base after screwing off the twist top. Inspecting it for a moment too long as if trying to divine its contents. ]
...Very Berry, Passion Mango Twist, Sleepy Time, or Black?
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joe is sleep rumpled and unfocused, hair surprisingly tidy albeit smooshed on one side, looking honestly more asleep than awake. he hasn't even put his boots on, shuffling to the kitchen in slippers andy handed him when he woke up with his head in her lap and curls being twisted into shape between her fingers, sunlight streaming through the trees. she'd shoved him toward the kitchen whilst laughing in his face. if 900 years didn't make him a morning person, space certainly wasn't going to.
he pours the coffee into the mug and takes a sip without so much as blowing on it, immediately making a face. nope, no. that is unbearable. he sets the mug down and turns to the cabinets to rifle through them. he knows he was asked something and he knows he should answer but his brain is currently occupied with trying to remember the third line of a poem he wrote in 1252 because clearly this is the most important thing on earth (or off it) to remember at this exact moment in time, but like a song you only know half the lyrics to, it's going to stay stuck in his head until he figures out the line. ]
Something about ducks, [ he murmurs under his breath. after a few minutes, he has a cup of mint tea steeping and he goes back to the coffee to finish it because he doesn't know how to waste food. ]
I'm Joe.
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Drift watches the other man navigate the kitchen with the grace of a bumper car in polite silence. First, observing the interesting journey his face took as it went through the stages of grief when trying to coffee. Debating if he should say something only for the man to meander towards the tea. In the interim Drift found himself fidgeting. One hand picks at one corner of the book before settling for spinning the gold band on the wrong ring finger. Pausing on one rotation when the man found the use of his larynx. ]
Good morning, Joe. I'm Drift. Coffee not your thing? [ Drift wasn't even going to pretend he could parse the comment about ducks. This man clearly arrived fresh from the territory of his own dreams. ]
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one time he and andy ate instant coffee dry. as it turns out, that is not how instant coffee is prepared.
he takes a deep breath, a steadying exhale. how do brains work this early? what kind of psychopath is awake this early — this early being a completely appropriate morning hour to be awake. the answer, of course, is his beloved partner and new baby sister still running on us military time. ]
This coffee is not my thing.
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Not mine either, but I'm sorry to say you've found us when we're all a little burnt out. Thought I'd do something to rouse everyone.
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