reverielogs | → nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard

» WHO? Charles Xavier / OPEN.
» WHEN? Mid-June.
» WHERE? Observation deck, crew quarters, bar. ( + VARIOUS )
» WHAT? Catch-all intro log.
» WARNINGS? Mentions of substance abuse and potential suicidal ideation. Discussion of disability. Will update if anything more appears.

a. observation deck.

( He hadn't taken it in properly, the very first day. Part of him had still clung stubbornly to the hope that this was all a terrifying fever dream, and that he would wake back up in 1973 alone and safe in his mansion, talk of the future and space and a new yawning emptiness just parts of his subconscious. Now time has passed, Charles is beginning to take that for the foolish wish it was. He knows that the metal corridors that confine him are as real as he is, a miracle of science and invention keeping dozens of people from so many worlds suspended in the dark black of the night's sky.

He spends a long time on the Observation Deck. It might seem like his thoughts are troubled, from the furrow between his brows, but in fact they're mostly silent. There's something awe inspiring about the view, the planet below them, the moons he's never seen before. Sometimes he gets up to walk the length of the windows, frowning down below. Sometimes he sits as close as he can, enraptured.

Sometimes he talks to himself, habits of a scattered, speeding brain working too hard. )

"Well, space is there, and we're going to climb it, and the moon and the planets are there, and new hopes for knowledge and peace are there. And, therefore, as we set sail we ask God's blessing on the most hazardous and dangerous and greatest adventure on which man has ever embarked."

( On this occasion, he realises too late that he's not alone. There's a flash of an embarrassed smile, a tip of his head towards his new companion. ) For me, it was only eleven years ago when Kennedy gave that speech. Space travel still felt like a far and distant dream. Now look at where we are. No wonder the astronauts felt small. Compared to this, everything else seems insignificant.

b. crew quarters.

( Usually Charles liked small spaces. It was a by-product of growing up with too much space. His flat in London had been cosy, two rooms, a small living space, a kitchen with peeling linoleum. He could have afforded better, but back then all he had cared about was getting himself and Raven as far away from Westchester as possible. He'd always thought it would be good for them, to live like normal people did, Charles studying and Raven with her waitressing. A lively street, pubs lining the student quarters, people of all types spilling in and out of old brick.

Looking back, that was probably his first mistake.

His freedom cost him Raven's trust. His head had gotten away from him. The shackles had been thrown off, but without realising he'd put them on her instead. He's trying not to think about that as he lies on his bunk, even though she's only a few rooms down and he could just as easily go to her. There's no point. He's done enough.

The door to his and Hank's quarters thrown open though, just so he can hear the people walking up and down the corridors. Because yes, Charles liked small spaces, but this? There's something cold about it, the grey of the room, the metal of the furnishings, the scratchy blanket that he'd tossed on the floor at some point because his sleep had been fractured until he'd woken up sweating and aching. It feels more like a coffin than he'd like to admit, his mortality staring him down from the bunk roof.

He's going to go mad here, he knows it.

Footsteps pause just beyond the door, and without looking over Charles calls out to whoever's there. ) Don't worry, I'm not dead. I'm just practising my impression of a sardine.

( He's fine, everything's fine. )

c. bar.

( Everything is very far from fine.

He can't sleep, is the thing. The trembling underneath his skin makes him feel like he's the epicentre of an earthquake, he can't settle. His thoughts have been shaken lose, so that the insidious voice he tries to smother down every day has found a foothold and is whispering directly into the bitter broken parts of his soul. He's stuck here. He's stuck on this godforsaken hunk of metal, in an empty blackness he doesn't recognise, and there's nothing he can do, nor no means of escape.

The serum is going to wear off.

He's sure it's already started, the safety it offers him receding like a tide. The fear of it is not new, but it's never quite been this pitch before. Soon, soon he'll stumble. He'll trip. He'll fall. Soon he won't be able to move at all. And the voices of his fellow prisoners will burst through him like a bullet until he's ragged with holes and bleeding out --.

Don't think about it.

Charles takes a shaking breath, squeezes his eyes shut. The bottle in front of him is three quarters empty. His mouth tastes like paint stripper. But he pours another glass anyway. He just needs to sleep. An hour, an hour and then maybe he can figure out a solution. Another glass and maybe he won't hurt quite as much. )

Does everything in space taste this shit?

( Focus on smaller things. It's easier. )

d wildcard.

i'm at athosing or discord @ Sarah#9964 if you need me. pms are also an option.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ah.

She blinks between him and the folder, lightly surprised (and as gratified as any nerd would be by someone expressing interest in their projects). Not too surprised - just about everyone here is working on something, and status updates are one of the only things they have for conversation, and just about the only topic Erika tolerates outside her circle of friends - but the novelty of not just being left alone hasn't quite worn off.]

Mmm. One of the devices onboard. [The 1970s were the dawn of the microprocessor, she thinks, while opening the binder and flashing a few pages of diagrams in explanation.] Termin- headsets, for virtual reality simulations.

( There's been talk of virtual reality simulators, so he's not that behind that he can't at least put two and two together. The military have to use it to train their pilots. But the girl before him doesn't seem like a soldier and he's aware that many, many years have passed between what he knows and now. She's definitely not talking about a Viewmaster. )

And you're working on them?

( He leans in to see the diagrams. ) Mending? Or improving?

Men...ding, maybe. [A moment of apparent fluster - wavering voice, downward glance - fading into sustained, less-apparent fluster. A stranger's attention is a tricky thing to be holding.] Or just analyzing. Using them - isn't a high priority around here. But if they're related to other onboard systems...or there's a way to cut down on their risks...um, it's the most efficient use of my time.

( Ah, but she reminds him of his more cautious students. So when she looks back up, Charles is fixing a encouraging and genuine smile her way. )

Yes, that makes more sense. If we can access the other systems when you've already done some of the leg work it might be easier. I don't think many people would be as proactive as you.

( Curiously. )

They have risks? What kind?

[That - is obvious ego-fluffing. And she lets it pass her by without response, because her philosophy on people saying things to make you feel better is that the whole process of it generally makes them feel better about something too, so at a certain distance you have to just sit politely and let it happen. Her back straightens a little, though, corners of her mouth tug down, pride subconsciously piecing itself together. If reassurance inspires resolve to spite the idea that you're the kind of person who needs reassurance, is the reassurance, actually, working as intended? Maybe so.

She opens her mouth, frowns, closes her mouth on an oncoming jargon train and hums lowly.] ...Different kinds of brain damage, mostly.

Well.

( Clearly that troubles him a little bit more than he'd like. He can't imagine people willingly putting themselves at risk, but then again sometimes humanity can be ridiculously stupid. )

Will you be safe if you're tinkering with them? ( Then, so he doesn't have to think twice. ) Actually, if you need anything I can do my best to help. While this kind of technology isn't my forté, biophysics is.

( He may want to put his head in the sand most days, but this is different. This is learning. )

Mmhm. It's not - the frequencies involved are insignificant until you actually wear it. [She switches mid-sentence to something a bit more...professional-sounding. Maybe. Which is sort of moot once he indicates he's something of an expert - light jargon is effective up to a certain point, then swaps around after that point and makes it clear how much you don't know, right? Dunning-Kruger? Maaaaaybe.

Can you imagine, there are people who talk to strangers for fun? Absolute lunatics.

She twiddles her thumb across the corner of the binder and glances down and to the right for a moment, actually thinking about that, because something does occur to her.]

Maybe. I know more about the software than the hardware. If I had questions about brain function and interfacing, specifically - is that something you can...?

Brain function certainly. And I'm sure between us we can figure out the gaps in knowledge? It would be a pleasure to help.

( And something to do, to keep his mind of everything and everyone aboard this station. He's only good with being anti-social when he has an empty mansion to haunt. )

Although, if you do need to contact me it might have to be via audio. I'm a bit slow on the uptake with texting.

→ nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be this hard

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when you play a genuis but you're dumb af, a story by me.