ximilian: (Default)
ximilia mods ([personal profile] ximilian) wrote in [community profile] ximilialog2023-06-01 06:40 pm

MISSION: THE AI AND THE COMMANDER

M I S S I O N   1 4 . 0

SOMEWHENPRESENT DAYFYI

// SOMEWHEN  


The hum of the teleportation platform is familiar, filling your ears as the bright light dissipates enough to safely open your eyes. You feel something solid beneath your feet, and the lack of scent from the asphalt and dirt in Nuhiri and Deumia marks a departure from anything resembling a planet, the space around you giving you no reason to think anything of it. You're on the Ximilia once again — finally. Another mission successfully accomplished, for whatever other hardships you and the rest of the team have endured. Hot food and hot showers await, and Newt will surely be scurrying off to prepare for the team’s usual post-mission movie night.

You’re back and you can’t wait for Viveca to greet you, and for Degar to take the orb away, back to the North Wing to join the other ones.

Except … the station’s walls appear to be peeling, and some of the equipment looks a little older and unpolished. There’s even a layer of space-dust on one of the control boards. And most importantly: no one is here to greet you. As you turn and look to your fellow crewmates in confusion, even now some of you might start to wonder at the change of routine. Ivy, who had just been handling the orb, will be empty-handed, but surely there’s nothing to worry about. The station is peaceful and still. Nothing feels amiss … yet. And then:

// 0-L1V-14
Oh, hello. You are not the team I know. Yet you are here for the orb … Good.

The sound of 0-L1V-14 — or 'Olivia' as many have come to call her — voice springs to life around you. She almost seems to sound confused for a moment, clearly recalibrating her systems for this strange occurrence, before the gentle tenor of her voice regains its composure and she recalls her mission directive. The lights in the teleportation platform seem to glow just a little brighter, as though the arrival of the crew has buoyed the AI's spirits.

// 0-L1V-14
I've located one within the station, but it seems to have fractured. The air around them appears to have some sort of temporal disturbance that I can't quite pin down. Be cautious, but bring them to me before anything happens.

Well? You heard the AI. Best to start looking.


1.0   The first thing you might think to do is return to the sleeping quarters, either to clean up and change into another set of clothes; or to take a much-deserved nap; or maybe you just need a moment to yourself to collect your thoughts. The doors to the sleeping quarters seem to stick for a moment, which isn’t worrying in and of itself, but as the doors slide open you realize that you’re looking into a dark and empty carved out space that resembles a place for storage more than anything else. The walls and doors that used to make up your individual rooms are absent, and the floors are stripped bare, with rows of perforated grates allowing the cavernous space to remain relatively well-ventilated. It’s clear that no one has visited this room in quite some time, and perhaps there had once been plans for it, now abandoned to hold a stock of random items in its place.

There are boxes stacked against the wall, and a shelving unit that holds miscellaneous supplies: cans and boxes, batteries and wires, old bound notebooks made of paper. Rolls of rough tarp are haphazardly leaning against the wall to one corner, and thermal blankets are scattered amongst scraps of loose-leaf, a sketch of a cluster of spherical shapes in different colours, and other foreign knick-knacks that seem to have no place on a space station. If you decide to explore this space you’ll have to provide your own source of light as none of the lighting above seem to work though the row of fixtures that you’re used to seem, at least, to have been installed. They’re just not currently online.

Investigating the room a little deeper might draw you to a simple metal box sitting in the middle shelf next to what looks like a half-broken lute, its strings missing. There is no lock on this box, as though it wants to be opened, and lifting the lid will reveal a bright rosy-coloured light. Reaching out towards the small sliver of light in the shape of an elongated teardrop will recall a memory of your childhood so vivid, you’ll think you were back in that time, in that exact moment, to relive it again. Whether it's a good memory or a tragic one is left up to random chance. Only someone entering the room to talk you through your memory will remind you that you aren’t actually a child any longer.


2.0   Perhaps you decide to forgo the sleeping quarters entirely, and want to revisit one of your favourite simulations in the simulation room. Familiar oceans, the futuristic bar, or the room filled with adorable puppies might be your first choice — but every preset you’re used to scrolling through seems to be different now. There are the standard, familiar pre-mission training simulations, and even the Lodgen Mountain Mines mission appears to be here, but everything else has either been deleted … or it was never here to begin with.

You might decide to go ahead with one of the already existing simulations anyway, or you might want to start rewriting the one you’d come here for in the first place. It will depend on your luck, and it will depend on the success of your mission-training, but a small shard of bright, silvery coloured light may suddenly reveal itself to you. It appears like a thin tear-shape that hangs suspended in the air. The faintest whisper beckons you close; it’s familiar. Will you reach out to touch it? Doing so will colour the simulation room around you with a memory so real it might as well be — suddenly you might recall a happy moment in your life, or perhaps your greatest victory or adventure. This can be shared with whoever enters the simulation room with you or after you, and will fade when you manage to locate the right door and leave the room.


3.0   The sunlight room that you may have walked through on countless occasions is missing the familiar bridge, the river that runs beneath it, and trees that surround it. Instead, the vegetation around you appears to be far more deliberate and practical, thick foliage like bushes planted in rows, their large leaves covering most of the ground and soil. Several small metal boxes with wires and buttons can be found planted across the space, each with a thin rotating disc that whirs and spins quietly. Each of these boxes appears to give off readings, each screen displaying a continuous green wavy line scrolling across it and text that displays the quality of the air with a percentile grade, the amount of it being produced, and that particular box’s designation zone: Mess Hall, Storage, Living Quarters, and Teleportation Platform among others. This isn’t just a room that simulates nature, but if you were to approach any of the small bushes and saplings here, it’s clear that the plants here are real and they’re currently working to provide the rest of the station with oxygen.

Further to the back of the sunlight room, a bright sliver of colourful green light seems to glitter and glint between the leaves. It feels familiar in the way that it whispers faintly, and if you concentrate you can make out the sound of your name in a voice like that of someone from your past: a friend, perhaps, or a family member. Maybe a loved one or an enemy. Or perhaps it’s a voice you can’t actually recognize. It might compel you to reach out for the light, but will you listen? Or will you turn away?

If you embrace the light and call out in answer to the voice, you will re-experience the action, the conversation, or the thought that you attribute as being the reason you are who you are today with that most important person being the key piece in your memory.


4.0   Looking for your usual snacks? Feeling peckish for that bowl of instant spicy space-ramen you saved for post-mission? You might head into the kitchen expecting the familiar foodstuffs that you’re used to only to find that the room has been rearranged, with far fewer cupboards and appliances, and more of what looks like typical space-fare: freeze-fried items and nutrition-focused meals sealed into silver foiled bags. What ‘fresh’ ingredients exist are even less, and there are a stack of dirty plates and cutlery in the sink that don’t look like anything you or your crewmates might have used. You may already suspect that this whole station isn’t the one you’re used to, or you might still be in denial. Either way, you may find through your rummaging the call to a little sliver of coppery-coloured light located behind the freezer door.

If you decide to touch the fragment of light here, you’ll feel a ghostly burning as though the glint of the light has cut your skin, almost cold enough to feel sharp — but it’s just your imagination, isn’t it? What you remember now as it comes back to life around you (and the team member or members who may have joined you) is the best meal you’ve ever eaten, whether it is something you made for yourself, something made by your loved one, or the meal that leaves your heart feeling empty and aching.


5.0   You may have become so accustomed to seeing the North Wing doors sealed that it’s your curiosity that draws you forward to the wide expanse beyond the now open wing, your feet testing the threshold as if you’re expecting an invisible wall to keep you out. Nothing happens when you step into the North Wing, though you might immediately notice the large tank that holds all of the team’s successfully captured orbs is very clearly missing. And not only that but the space appears to be well lived in, a small cluster of worn chairs and a table set to one side, and data pads and drawings on white-boards in plain view. They don’t seem to be much more than a couple of crude strategy diagrams (and a couple of silly stick figures in one corner) and as you move towards the crew quarters, some of you might instantly recognize the familiar room with its rows of beds and a scattering of personal effects assigned to each bunk. Photos are pinned to walls of a twenty-person crew, pillows and blankets are left in disarray by unfinished knitting projects, a diary written in a language you can’t quite translate, and a stuffed elephant-shaped plush doll lies at the head of one of the beds in the middle of the room. By the door is a neatly made bed. An analogue paperback novel sits on the nightstand, a bookmark set in the middle to note its progress. On top of it is a well-kept watch stopped a little after the sixth hour and a medal of service in the now recognizable insignia of the Ndiera Complex’s Federation.

By the far wall of these sleeping quarters is a bright golden starlight that seems to illuminate that side of the room as though someone had turned on a torchlight to the highest setting; it’s almost blinding. Moving closer to it, you’ll find that it’s like all the other slivers of light scattered across the station — a broken shard, like a piece of a large puzzle. Touching it may pull you — and whoever might be in the room with you — into a memory from your time with the Ximilia crew, whether it happened over a year ago, or it happened only on the last mission. It might be a happy memory, or it might be something you regret, which is poignant considering your initial raison d’etre for being here at all. It’s a vision that appears from your perspective and while you relive it, you feel outside of yourself.


6.0   The rest of the station still appears to be intact, with the infirmary, the training room, and the armoury in the same locations that you remember. Those of you who have been here for quite some time, you’ll find your way around by muscle memory alone; but even if you’re a newer member of the crew you’ll have wandered the halls enough to know what feels familiar to you … and what doesn’t.

The infirmary looks to be a little out of date, though it looks as if it’s seen its fair share of use. And it’s smaller too, the more recent addition and surgical area missing from the cozy space. The training room and the armoury share similar qualities of seeming a little older, a little more lived in, and with well-used equipment and weapons to boot. The training room is still padded with firm padded flooring and benches for sitting. Some of the racks and hooks (all empty) that had been against the wall have fallen now, and similar to the teleportation room, you’ll find that some of the paneling in this room has since peeled away, revealing some of the bare structure behind them. In the armoury, you won’t find your favourite knife or preferred staff but there are still a few choices in weaponry to arm yourself with.

Wherever you decide to explore, you might once more happen upon a bright bluish light that seems to whisper and call to you in soft, hushed tones. No specific words can be picked out through the murmurs but the feeling is all the same — it draws you forward like a moth to flame, but whether you decide to reach a hand out to touch the sliver of light that hangs suspended in the air is entirely your choice. If you do, you might succumb to a vivid memory of a significant injury you or someone important to you had suffered once, reliving that moment with too sharp clarity. Those feelings of fear or threat or maybe even satisfaction seem to come to you again as though you were there again — only this time you may not be alone as you witness this memory, and someone else has entered the room with you.

Present Day.

The teleportation platform hums quietly in a clean, well-maintained room. No walls or floors appear to be even the least bit dented, and now the Commander of the Ximilia stands behind the control board, staring at the screen as though doing so will bring their crew back by some wild form of magic. Degar knows magic — he’d come from a world so full of it. This, however, is something different.

Beside him, Viveca scans through the data that had sent the crew into the Ndiera Complex, as it should have brought them back the same way, with the orb in tow.

// VIVECA
“I don’t know how it happened… they should have arrived here. Everything seemed normal! But I’ll figure it out. We’ll figure it out.”

// DEGAR
“They could be anywhere, right? Except we can’t even help them if we don’t know where that might be.”

// VIVECA
“I know. The strange thing is that it seems that we’ve located another orb… only, it states that it’s here. On the station. So even if the platform sent them straight to it… why aren’t they here?”

The Commander and the AI both turn their gaze towards the still empty teleportation platform before exchanging worried glances with each other. Degar finally heaves an exhale but the frown in his features deepens.

// DEGAR
“Keep working at it. I’m going to see what I can figure out in the station’s systems. Maybe we can trace back to the team somewhere. Or somewhen.”

Viveca nods, her voice sounding complicated when she responds next.

// VIVECA
“Yeah. We’ll find them.”

TOP


F Y I

The events in this log take place during the first two weeks of June.

For this mission, we have decided to run the search request mechanic a little differently. Depending on whether your character decides to touch or grasp one or any of the slivers of coloured light that can be found throughout the station, you will have the opportunity to participate in a search request. More on this is explained HERE.

If you have questions about any of the prompts or the mission in general, please direct them HERE.

Any in-character questions to 0-L1V-14 can be asked HERE.

And finally, your soundtrack for this log:

TOP


NAV

peasant: (alina-ep6-1)

[personal profile] peasant 2023-06-10 01:01 am (UTC)(link)
[ an incredulous snort gusts out of her. strange that he's the optimistic one of their duo, this once. if olivia can't return her own crew to the safe bowels of this station, alina scarcely trusts her to ensure their continued survival — though she doesn't discount that, perhaps, chishiya is clinging to reassurances to mitigate her stress. a sentiment he himself might not even be convinced of, but provides to keep her faltering faith alive.

it tempers her sardonic tongue by a sliver. returns her to something ruefully matter-of-fact.
]

From where I'm standing, she doesn't know much of anything. She might not harm us, but I wouldn't count on her help.

[ maybe that isn't fair to olivia, machine that she is. but alina's tolerance for that unfamiliar presence among them is low, unable to extend the same grace to a near-stranger than she would viveca or — degar, in that comfortable status quo of leadership.

she drops her fingers from chishiya's forearms, her nod sharp with decisiveness.
]

I suppose I had best get to work on this mess, then, if we don't all want to die a horrible death.

[ ah. morbid levity as a means of coping. she's doing so well. ]
drawsblood: (24)

[personal profile] drawsblood 2023-06-10 01:14 am (UTC)(link)
[ He gives a shrug at the acknowledgment of his questions. ]

Perhaps just repetitive, then.

[ And then he falls silent because it's not in his nature to pry into personal things. It's obvious the pair cared for one another; maybe even loved one another. Not that Joric has ever felt anything that strong for someone to compare. He's merely guessing, and also guessing that if the person he loved went back home and lost all her memories of this place and him that the last thing he'd want to do is talk about it. ]

The orbs never fail to impress with how much they can do to us, do they?
bindsthedead: (art-explaining)

[personal profile] bindsthedead 2023-06-10 01:20 am (UTC)(link)
[Sabriel feels the pressure, but her mind, focused on the monster trying to tear her throat out, doesn't consciously register it.

Sabriel moves smoothly, sidestepping the creatures attack and striking at the creature's elbow, slicing through and kicking aside the clawed forearm, even as it tries to grab at her, still moving despite being severed. Her fighting style lacks the polish it will eventually have, but there's an efficiency to her movements, and her forms are all technically correct.

The Dead do not bleed. But there is a shadow oozing out of the severed limb, and tendrils of the same coming from the creature, where Sabriel cut it- along with light, Charter marks from her sword slowly burning the flesh.

But such a spell isn't enough to destroy a Fifth Gate Rester. Sabriel's attacks might have deprived it of an arm, but it's not enough. Her next strike takes off its remaining hand, only for a spike of sharpened bone to emerge from its wrist to try to impale her. It's still reshaping its body, even now- the neck stretching longer and longer- presenting a better target for her next strike.

Even as the jaws of the severed head snap, and the main body keeps attacking with wild strikes, still fully animate but striking blindly, Sabriel inhales and start to whistle, the sound deep and pure as she reaches into herself, for that core of chaotic power, and lets it flow into her throat and out of her lips, backed by her will.

The note echoes through the grounds, the sound lingering and drowning out the creature's shrieks, the scream of Abhorsen's get. It does not stop, as the body stumbles, and falls on its side mid-thrust, still twitching, held in place by Sabriel's will and unable to free itself. Her next words echo with the same power, resonating and echoing in a way that simply doesn't match the acoustics of the school grounds.]

Begone! Return to Death, and trouble the living no more!

[And with a final death-rattle, the body- and detached pieces- go still. There's just a corpse there, mutilated and decaying.

And then Sabriel turns to Unohana and blinks, sword immediately going up into a guard position. But there's a look of confusion in her eyes, like Sabriel half-recognizes who she's looking at, despite her fear.]
dispassioned: (pic#16304758)

[personal profile] dispassioned 2023-06-10 01:50 am (UTC)(link)
[She's not wrong, really. Optimism doesn't come naturally or easily to him, but seeing her stress made him want to offer her something like hope.

It doesn’t surprise him much that he wasn't convincing. And he can't blame her for her lack of faith in Olivia, either.

As she drops her hands from his arms, he slowly pulls back from his embrace. Though he doesn't release her entirely yet, leaving his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.]


You don't have to do it by yourself.
homeostatic: dnt (031)

[personal profile] homeostatic 2023-06-10 01:58 am (UTC)(link)
I see.

( he does, actually, turning it over thoughtfully while he quietly eats. is it measurable, he wonders, by outside means? would chakra show up on a tricorder as more than that ever-mysterious and unquantifiable 'strange energy' they seemed to run into at home? away from the physiological-related questions he has, mccoy practically vibrates with the desire to ask uchiha about his life at home; if such chakra and its use is common in his people, and what it is they do with it. heal, of course, but he's not an idiot– the young man handled that knife so expertly...

uchiha is fortunately saved from further probing by the alarm in mccoy's earpiece. he gives it a short tap, and gruffly sighs, hurrying to polish off the last of his plate. )


Dammit. Back to work. Uh...

Thank you for the meal, ( mccoy tells him after a short pause to find the right phrase in japanese: 'gochisousama', which rolls easier off the tongue than he expects. ) I'll pass my thanks on to Mikotoba when I see him.
blackfire: (pic#15365530)

[personal profile] blackfire 2023-06-10 02:04 am (UTC)(link)
the behaviour comes no more as a surprise than did the whipping. he has seen the mask of the man he knows slip. he has seen him furious as a storm, and wearied beyond fatigue alone, and so desperately distraught there is a weight to his sorrow. he has seen him in pain. he has never seen him young. childhood was something cut away from him, scattered to the wind.

Madam Yu beat me as badly as I deserved, he had said once, and there was almost a mania lurking behind the words, something haughty and cold and broken all at once. he has never looked at wei wuxian and seen anything other than the light of him, save that one moment in alydhion. as if the windows had been shuttered and the candles capped, leaving only the ghosts of their smoke in the air.

he can do nothing, for the bitter ills of the past. there is no panacea he can offer, save to be present. there is only forward, and there is only through.

itachi smooths the boy's hair with a deft touch, and then gives him a warm smile. when wei ying's fingers tighten on his, he responds in kind. the sentiment — that he is not letting go — is clear and bright as a clarion bell.


Close your eyes for me, and count to three. When you open them, we will be on the moon. There you can heal, and be well. No time will pass in the halls of Lotus Pier, and she will never know you did not do as she bid you.

he cannot break the memory apart and win their freedom. but he can change it — and will.
coordination: (curious about catching)

BLUE LIGHT

[personal profile] coordination 2023-06-10 02:08 am (UTC)(link)
[  ̄︶ ̄ ]
drawsblood: (34)

[personal profile] drawsblood 2023-06-10 02:17 am (UTC)(link)
[ OOC: I'm gonna have him see the precursors being removed from his head! ]

[ It's all too familiar and yet not at the same time. Familiar because Joric completely understands being taken over by a violent force that he can't control and unfamiliar because his conscious mind is so suppressed when it happens that he can't reach out for help. He's just buried down in the dark, completely unaware of what his own body is doing out there; unaware of the bloodshed he could cause.

And as he watches the memory unfold he wonders: could he be freed of this magic that's on his mind? Could the crew come together and rescue him from it? But the thought is fleeting. For that to happen he would need to trust a great many people with the knowledge that he has this monster lurking inside, only held back by the miracle of the medicine from the infirmary.

But when it's all over and the precursors' screams have died out leaving only Newt surrounded by the friends who saved him, Joric feels a kinship with the man he never has before. There's no denying that he and Newt are very different, but now it doesn't feel like so deep a chasm to cross to understand him. And it's time, isn't it? He's been here so long and if one day he loses his medicine or it just stops working, people should know what he could become.

Quietly, he speaks aloud. ]


I know what it's like to get pushed down in my own mind until I'm no longer in control.
blackfire: (pic#15232648)

[personal profile] blackfire 2023-06-10 02:23 am (UTC)(link)
he remains perfectly still until the moment mccoy is gone from his sightline, until his footsteps have receded down the hall.

and then his shoulders sag, and he lifts one hand up to bury his fingers briefly in his hair, leaning into the respite of his palm.

it is only a moment. a sliver of vulnerability, there and gone the way a cloud chases the moon. when he exhales, it is steady.

then he rises, and brings the dishes to the kitchen. he no longer has an appetite of any sort.
peasant: (alina30761)

[personal profile] peasant 2023-06-10 02:24 am (UTC)(link)
[ at another time, she may have disputed it — before nikolai, before zoya, before genya. before she had invited anyone else beyond the reclusive trust she shared with mal and mal alone, safer in their seclusion and co-dependency. but it's obvious, now; generals without an army behind them can lead nothing. a queen without supporters is merely a prop, a doll dressed on a throne. and a sun summoner without friends is asking to be extinguished and left in the dark — waning by her own hand, if not another's.

her lips quirk, soft. one hand raises, lithe fingers clapping over his at her shoulder to squeeze, a silent intonation of i know in that tender wring. what flees from her mouth instead is wry, at her own expense, and akin to dangling her own fears on stage for him to witness.
]

And invite a public audience to comment on my life?

[ an emphatic arch of her brows drives the point home. forthcoming as he has been, she highly doubts he would be so comfortable with the station spectating on his life as though it's a film in newt's collection, either. ]
dispassioned: (pic#16255366)

[personal profile] dispassioned 2023-06-10 03:04 am (UTC)(link)
[When Yzak enters the training room, he will be met with this memory. A shoot out in a dilapidated Tokyo between three men with a lot of baggage.

As the memory fades, Chishiya rubs idly at the right side of his chest, almost like he’s double checking that he’s not bleeding again.]


So, it’s going to be like this, is it.
coordination: (I WANNA KNOW WHAT LOVE IS)

[personal profile] coordination 2023-06-10 03:15 am (UTC)(link)
[ Yzak's checking out the sunlight room almost in an awe at how ... different it is compared to the one they know. So much so that he doesn't take the note that he normally would that someone else is nearby - that, and the way the light around that bush catches his attention and draws him in. And when it does, said light quickly expands and engulfs him as well as poor, approaching Andy. ]

[ THIS memory throws you firsthand into the cockpit of a machine. In the reflection of the screens around you, you can see Yzak's familiar (slightly younger) face staring back, sporting a scar that he definitely never had during his time on the Ximilia cutting straight across his face. There's a brush of nervousness the moment the memory starts - the knowledge that you're here to go after the traitors. The daughter of your homeland's former Chairman (now dead) and those who support her are hiding in this abandoned space colony. But this daughter - Lacus, you like her. You always admired her and her music and her kindness and even you questioned how someone like her could just betray her own people. It's one of the many things that sprouted hesitation and doubts in your mind about many things regarding this war.

And it's not only Lacus you know now on the other side of the battlefield. It's Athrun (who was on the Ximilia before). It's one of your former commanders. It's the battleship of the Earth Alliance (your enemy) who likewise broke away from their military. You were asked if you could do it; kill these people you once considered allies and friends, and you very boldly stated that of course you'd shoot down any traitor. But ... can you really? Your mind is already a messy swirl of emotions, and little do you know it's about to get a hell of a lot worse.

Two machines (giant humanoid robots, it's GUNDAM BABY) pop up on your radar. The lighter of the two sets off all sorts of ugly emotions in you: humiliation, defeat, vengeance, and you becomes overly-aware of the scar on your face. But in an instant your blood runs cold when you spot the darker of the two machines: the Buster. Visions of a dark-skinned blond around your age (your best friend, your roommate in the military academy and on your battleship, someone who understands and likes being around you) haunt you and staring at the machine is like looking at a ghost. The last time you saw this machine was when it was fighting by your side, but in that battle he was shot down, communications ceased. And no sort of rescue beacon was ever picked up nearby (because you were aces and he absolutely wouldn't die so easily). He was gone, dead just like the comrade you were both trying to avenge back then. And now his machine was repaired by the enemy you'd dogged for so long and fighting alongside the very machine that's given you nothing but grief and embarrassment.

It's like a huge slap to the face. How dare they use Dearka's machine. How dare a Natural use his machine.

The anger boils back up inside of you and you strike out, your commander by your side as support. You attack, the Buster moves out the way. You attack again, it manages to dodge again. Then it brings up its huge gun and fires, not at you, but rather to hold you off for a moment as you hear a familiar voice cut in over the communication system and call out your name.

Dearka's voice.

It's him.

He's alive.

Initially there's shock, because you can't believe it and nearly don't. One of those moments to wonder if your mind is playing tricks on you even though it never does so you should really know better, and yet. But after that shock, and even alongside the happiness that you can't help but feel, comes another wave. A wave of realization as to what this means. He's alive. He's been alive this whole time (and there's a sting there - all this time, and he never tried to at least let him know), and now he's fighting alongside these traitors. Which means he betrayed him, too.

And if you think Yzak now has a short temper and an attitude, this younger Yzak is a lot worse, what it feels like to be in his mind at this moment is like realizing things may not be as clear cut as they seem, but that growth is stunted because you've had this thorny vine of horrible feelings that were never struck down growing alongside it, choking it. So you're confused and angry at everything around you. Including Dearka, if this is what it looks like.

He wants to talk. Face to face, without pointing weapons at each other. But you can't take the chance, at least not in a way where your guard is down. So you agree, but when you see his face again (and it still almost feels like you're staring at a ghost because to you he's been dead this whole time) you aim your gun at it. Because you will not be tricked and humiliated yet again. Dearka seems surprised, but he remains calm, and you talk. Or, well, argue for the most part on your end because you refuse to budge and you can't understand why this is happening and why all of these people left you behind. You learn things you never knew about part of the war - about the ship you'd pursued, about the pilot that gave you this scar. About what happened to Dearka and what he saw and what he went through that caused him to stand where he stands now. It's a lot to take in, and you're confused, but you're bad at dealing with these feelings, so you react the only way you know how to, you lash out and desperately try to get him to see it your way. "You're being deceived!"

Dearka, who'd started to head back to his machine, fine with turning his back on you (maybe he can tell that you'd never be able to shoot him despite your threats), gives you one last glance over his shoulder, and what he says stands out more than anything in this memory.

"I wonder which of the two of us are really being deceived, here."

And it's those words that hit you the hardest, but stick with you the most through the rest of the war. Which isn't so much a part of the "memory" but rather something also gotten from recollection of that line. You'd begun to wonder, you'd begun to question. But there were always things around you that only allowed you to do that so much. You realized later you were the one in the dark - and while it wasn't entirely your fault, you didn't help much with how goddamned stubborn you'd been. It's a humiliation that lasts well beyond things like that scar on your face which you removed later. And while it still feels embarrassing to reflect on it, it also serves as the determination you have now to do all in your power to never let it happen again. ]
dispassioned: (pic#16250858)

[personal profile] dispassioned 2023-06-10 03:15 am (UTC)(link)
[Well, that’s a fair point. He sighs a little.]

Not everyone comments. In my experience, people seem to feel as awkward about seeing them as I do about having them seen.

[Which is to say, it’s already happened to him. Inconvenient. Irritating. But his apathy is a decent coping mechanism for dealing with it. If he tells himself it’s fine and it doesn’t matter enough maybe eventually it will start to feel true.

Still, he doubts it would work for her. Secretive as she is, she’s not good at concealing her feelings. He suspects this will be harder for her.]
peasant: (alina-ep4-6)

[personal profile] peasant 2023-06-10 04:06 am (UTC)(link)
Is this a pep-talk? It feels like a pep-talk.

[ or as close to a facsimile of one as someone so mired in humanity's cynicism can achieve. alina's mouth twitches at the obvious effort it must take to — not lie, but diminish it. like telling orphaned children their scraped-up knees aren't as bad as the bloodied sight of them suggests, before slapping gauze over it. ]

It's always worse than that. [ her mouth slants into an ironic smile. ] They judge. Or act as though they've witnessed all there is to know.

[ names that rhyme with 'kaleksander mirigan' for 200, alex. months away from the ximilia haven't dulled her annoyance with his analysis of her. chishiya, at least, knows intimately well where her opinions on assumptions and over-familiarity from strangers fall. ]
dispassioned: (pic#16296978)

[personal profile] dispassioned 2023-06-10 04:41 am (UTC)(link)
I'm making an attempt.

[He admits wryly, as if he knows how unusual it might seem and how he may not be good at it. Still, she has done the same for him, when she gently encouraged him to work in the Ximilia's infirmary. He can try to return the favor.

But her disagreement doesn't surprise him once she voices it. He's very aware of how much she hates to feel judged. It only makes sense that it would be a concern for her now.

He hums thoughtfully, and then offers:]


You could ask someone to watch your back; to guard the entrance of the rooms you explore so no one else can come in.
peasant: (alina-ep1-11)

[personal profile] peasant 2023-06-10 04:57 am (UTC)(link)
[ the first candidate that flickers into her mind is mal, brawny and compliant. mal, who might still be soaring across the open seas of freedom. mal, who is walking a converging path to her own. mal, who she can't call upon as her instincts demand, every time she encounters an obstacle.

it's an arduous habit to break, like asking the sky not to exist in conjunction with the moon. she rolls her lips together, banishing her last, lingering look at him from her mind, finding the months since his departure from ravka have forced the sting to subside. have muddled the memory of his face into a vignette, slightly faded in her memory.
]

Like a warden?

[ she's only pulling on his metaphorical tail. all said, she's skeptical that any of their crew would simply ... yield to that demand. orbers, alina's found, have the same drive as a bull ramming itself into the side of its pen. stubborn, resistant.

a breath expels from her, carrying a suspicious note of amusement as her eyes drift down to his feet, then back to the platinum fall of his hair.
]

Are you volunteering?
dispassioned: (pic#16308892)

[personal profile] dispassioned 2023-06-10 05:50 am (UTC)(link)
[That's a surprisingly difficult question to answer. He's willing to. But from a purely rational standpoint he wouldn't expect to be her choice for this. He hasn't known her that long compared to some of the other members of the crew. He's not a naturally trustworthy person. He's a work in progress at best and she's still getting to know him. He doesn't feel like he's earned it.

Which isn't to say he thinks Alina distrusts him. He doesn't doubt she does trust him to an extent. Enough to share a bed with her. To tell him about her childhood, about being Grisha. But there are parts of herself she's been hesitant to share, and he respects her enough to accept that. She'll share when and if she's ready to. And more than that, he knows he has an unfortunate talent for causing her to feel judged, even when he's trying not to.

He takes a breath and sighs.]


Only if you want me to.

[Which is to say, the choice is hers. He's not angling for anything in particular. That's something he's actually trying to do less of in general. And curious as he is, being shown random memories isn't really how he wants to get to know her better. It's not how he'd choose to get to know anyone, honestly. There's a forced intimacy to it that makes it distasteful.]
Edited 2023-06-10 05:55 (UTC)
peasant: (alina-ep2-13)

[personal profile] peasant 2023-06-10 06:11 am (UTC)(link)
I'll consider it.

[ it has little to do with want, alina thinks. no one wants an intruder on the fringes of their mind. no one wants to let the skeletons in their closet topple out onto the floor, left in plain sight. there are too many unsightly corpses of old memories and darker impulses contained inside of her like a haunted house. nothing she would want him to dredge up.

a stranger would be the better choice, for all of her griping. their judgment, contracted to his, is a dull blade. capable of creating a shallow wound, but nothing deeper. chishiya, on the other hand — she hardly knows what he would think. hardly knows if he might think better of her company, might walk away as mal had. if all of ravka might, if their gratitude turned to fear.

she wonders if it won't be an insult that she has to think on this decision at all. still, something tells her he would prefer her to muse over it than to feed him a lie. her eyes flicker between his, returning to solemnity when she mutters, quietly intimate,
]

The offer is mutual, you know. [ she clarifies, after a beat: ] If you need me to return the favor, I can make sure no one interrupts you.
softshoes: (👞 57)

[personal profile] softshoes 2023-06-10 06:19 am (UTC)(link)
At last, Kazuma speaks, as if he's been woken out of slumber. Yujin whirls around to face him, eyes wide and distraught; this time, watching Kazuma hang his head like this, he can't see Genshin Asogi at all. All he sees is the teenage boy he'd watched grow into a man-- the boy who, more than a decade ago, Yujin had tried to shield with a well-intentioned lie.

(Is this really their first time addressing all of this, after nearly a year? How must he have felt, holding all of it in, all this time?)

"Kazuma-kun," he says gently. Step by step, he draws closer; Yujin rests a hand, still smarting from where it'd struck the desk, on Kazuma's shoulder. "You were led to this choice by lies." He pauses. His voice falters, but only just.

"...Including my own."

The admission hurts. It's an acknowledgment of failure-- of all his failures: to protect Kazuma, to be anything like the father he had deserved, to judge the character of the man who had fooled them all. Sadness sinks itself, deep in his chest. "How," he continues, hoarse, "could I blame you, when I was taken in, myself?"
dispassioned: (pic#16249597)

[personal profile] dispassioned 2023-06-10 06:38 am (UTC)(link)
[He hums, accepting that answer. It's fair, really. He wouldn't expect her to jump to a decision immediately, not with the amount of stress she seems to
be under.

And when she offers to return the favor, he tilts his head, thoughtful.]


I'd appreciate it.

[Having been dealing with this for a couple of days now, he's a little more open to the idea than she seems to be. At the very least having some warning that someone might be intruding would be nice.]
peasant: (alina-ep3-7)

[personal profile] peasant 2023-06-10 06:48 am (UTC)(link)
[ she nods once, twice. if she can conquer the fold, she can manage that much. it adds to her growing list of priorities until the fear of her vacant sun summoning becomes a lesser blip on the horizon. never forgotten, for how it looms and looms like an apocalyptic storm — but pushed a little farther away, for the time being, until she can simply pretend it isn't a pressing concern. ]

You can repay me with something that doesn't taste like bark once we're back.

[ because they will get back. she refuses to accept an alternative fate. carefully, her lithe fingers squeeze around his, a silent reassurance woven through the gesture. and perhaps a slip of thanks, for the inherent trust he's shown her — though she supposes there might be nothing left for her to uncover, no veil to hide behind, with all that he's willfully pulled back the curtain on. invited her to know, of his own volition. ]
dispassioned: (pic#16249581)

[personal profile] dispassioned 2023-06-10 07:30 am (UTC)(link)
[Being told is different than actually seeing things unfold in real time before her. There are still things he wouldn’t be proud for her to see. But, while he might dislike if she judged him, it’s also something he’s experienced before. Her disapproval and her scolding. He thinks he could handle it again. What it comes down to is that it’s easier for him to accept sympathy from her than from others. Which is a kind of trust, a willingness to let her have access to the more damaged parts of himself.

His lips twitch a little at her words, squeezing her fingers gently in response. He’s putting himself in her debt again, it seems. Although he was possibly already planning something like that in any case. He hasn’t forgotten her request that he cook her something.

However:]


I could do that now, if you want. I had lollipops packed in my medical bag.

[Did he take her advice about candy working on adults as well as kids? Maybe. And they might be the best tasting things on the station, even if their nutritional value is lacking.]
Edited 2023-06-10 07:31 (UTC)
peasant: (alina-ep8-6)

[personal profile] peasant 2023-06-10 08:10 am (UTC)(link)
[ it's so startlingly light-hearted, and such an unexpected development, that it stuns her into a laugh. the usual clarity of that sound rings dull, faded and frazzled — but it's there, all the same, too sudden to be anything but sincere. ]

It's been a long time since I've had one of those.

[ the strangeness of it all strikes her like a blunt force swing of an object to the skull. it must've been mere days for him. for her, it's — a complicated web of time. months, to be certain. months that feel packed into just a few long hours, existing in some liminal space and time, until it all turns into a blurry vortex. days. weeks. the ximilia makes it impossible to distinguish any of it, beyond knowing that she'd been gone.

until she wasn't.

trying to make sense of her circumstances only introduces the same pounding drumbeat into her head, a persistent migraine lingering at the edges of her awareness. absently, she rubs at the base of her spine, pinching to alleviate a gathering bump of tension.
]

You might turn into the station's most popular man, if word about your stockpile gets out. [ then, with a little frail hope, ] Did you bring strawberry?

[ look. it's the small things that are most appreciated, sometimes. ]
Edited 2023-06-10 08:10 (UTC)