Mike Slattery (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
charlieoscar) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
reverielogs2018-08-21 01:53 pm
charlieoscar) wrote in reverielogs2018-08-21 01:53 pm
Entry tags:
Tide don't know where the river flows
» WHO? Mike and You
» WHEN? Shortly after the sickness plot
» WHERE? Around the station
» WHAT? Mike is not!dead of mystery plague and even got some new duds.
» WARNINGS?None at this time.
Mike thought he was going to die. Then he got so bad, he wished he had. But for all his tempting of Fate, he remained. Enduring, until he found himself waking and thinking that actually, he didn't really feel all that terrible.
That, in and of itself, would have been reason enough to celebrate: the simple joy of being able to cross his own suite without feeling like his knees might be swept from under him, to finally shower the stink of sweat and sick off, to see the dark, spidering veins giving up his body....
And then he found it. Pressed. Folded. As if he himself had put it there. As if it had been waiting for him.
When his hands shook now, it wasn't from illness.
Deck 4:
Plague aside, Mike took care of himself on station. Both as professional habit and personal pride - clean jumpsuit, shaved face, neat hair, his magboots as shiny as he could make them. But somehow he managed to even outdo himself as he stepped from cabin #001 that day. He stands taller in his navy uniform. Stronger for the blue and white silhouette, despite the jagged, black tendrils still snaking from under his collar.
He stands in the doorway - the frame all but engulfed by his shoulders - and smiles at a passerby. He ducks his head, in greeting, as his wrist flicks and the ballcap in his hand snaps open.
Joining them in the flow of foot-traffic, he begins to settle it on his head.
USS Nathan James, it reads. The Spear of the Navy.
"Morning."
It doesn't seem to matter that it actually isn't.
Mess Hall:
He takes the hat off when he eats, but it stays nearby. On the table by his right hand, where he can easily reach it. And see it.
Stare at it, his chest filling with both pride and grief.
And his face too, as the expression he looks up with is clear.
"Help yourself," he gestures with his cutlery to the open seat across from him.
Command Area:
Despite feeling better, he still tires more quickly than he would have liked. Before giving into it and returning to the walls of his cabin, he finds his way to the Bridge. Out of all the places on the station, this was the one he liked the most.
Found the most comfort in.
Understood.
He stands behind the command chair and stares silently at the displays. When footsteps announce someone joining him, he glances back, then nods his head at the large screen.
"Too bad it's not a window, huh?"
» WHEN? Shortly after the sickness plot
» WHERE? Around the station
» WHAT? Mike is not!dead of mystery plague and even got some new duds.
» WARNINGS?None at this time.
Mike thought he was going to die. Then he got so bad, he wished he had. But for all his tempting of Fate, he remained. Enduring, until he found himself waking and thinking that actually, he didn't really feel all that terrible.
That, in and of itself, would have been reason enough to celebrate: the simple joy of being able to cross his own suite without feeling like his knees might be swept from under him, to finally shower the stink of sweat and sick off, to see the dark, spidering veins giving up his body....
And then he found it. Pressed. Folded. As if he himself had put it there. As if it had been waiting for him.
When his hands shook now, it wasn't from illness.
Deck 4:
Plague aside, Mike took care of himself on station. Both as professional habit and personal pride - clean jumpsuit, shaved face, neat hair, his magboots as shiny as he could make them. But somehow he managed to even outdo himself as he stepped from cabin #001 that day. He stands taller in his navy uniform. Stronger for the blue and white silhouette, despite the jagged, black tendrils still snaking from under his collar.
He stands in the doorway - the frame all but engulfed by his shoulders - and smiles at a passerby. He ducks his head, in greeting, as his wrist flicks and the ballcap in his hand snaps open.
Joining them in the flow of foot-traffic, he begins to settle it on his head.
"Morning."
It doesn't seem to matter that it actually isn't.
Mess Hall:
He takes the hat off when he eats, but it stays nearby. On the table by his right hand, where he can easily reach it. And see it.
Stare at it, his chest filling with both pride and grief.
And his face too, as the expression he looks up with is clear.
"Help yourself," he gestures with his cutlery to the open seat across from him.
Command Area:
Despite feeling better, he still tires more quickly than he would have liked. Before giving into it and returning to the walls of his cabin, he finds his way to the Bridge. Out of all the places on the station, this was the one he liked the most.
Found the most comfort in.
Understood.
He stands behind the command chair and stares silently at the displays. When footsteps announce someone joining him, he glances back, then nods his head at the large screen.
"Too bad it's not a window, huh?"
no subject
"All the more reason to enjoy what we can while we can." The spoon points down toward his bowl of oatmeal mush. "Is it just me or does this actually taste normal today? If I didn't know better I'd say there were actual oats in it."
no subject
no subject
"Don't worry, I'm sure we'll be back to running for our lives soon enough."
He scoops into his oatmeal and lifts the spoon toward his mouth.
"So get it while it lasts."