Ricki Tarr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rickitikitarr) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
reverielogs2018-05-24 05:04 pm
rickitikitarr) wrote in reverielogs2018-05-24 05:04 pm
can of worms (open)
» WHO? Ricki Tarr
» WHEN? Today
» WHERE? The hall, the bar, the fitness area.
» WHAT? A new arrival, poking his nose into things and making himself a menace.
» WARNINGS? Potentially a little light violence.
1. Ricki handles the kidnapping with a particular lack of grace. He comes to in a bedroom, slips out into the hallway, and makes his way along with a nearly silent step.
At the next blind corner he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, and makes an entirely unconscious decision. He steps aside, puts his back to the wall, and waits until the person has stepped past him.
It's only the fact that the person who goes by is wearing a jumpsuit like his that keeps the encounter from becoming immediately violent. Instead, he settles for slipping forwards, and asking, deliberately just a little too close for comfort;
"Baby, if this is a work event, then I want it on record that I think the bosses have really lost the plot this time."
2. Ricki slips into the bar his first night on board, and helps himself to a seat with the kind of view professionals like- all exits, all corners of the room, left side of his body against the wall so his dominant arm is in play if he needs it. Back to the corner is more conspicuous, but this is telling too if you know what you're looking for.
He goes to his seat with a drink in hand, a couple of thumbs of something translucent, and settles in to watch the crowd go by. To watch for the other people who are also watching.
3. The exercise is in the same kind of disrepair as the rest of the place, but when Ricki steps into it, it feels familiar. He's exercised in dirtier, stranger places than this with much more makeshift equipment. So it needs a coat of paint- so what?
He's heard the rumours about what happens to your muscles in this kind of not-gravity. He's lived in places more cramped than this. It isn't just the desire to fiddle while Rome burns that has him attacking one of the more familiar pieces of equipment with a rag and soapy water. With the grunge soaked away, a chain reattached, and a few makeshift adjustments, in a few hours he ends up with a mostly serviceable erg machine.
Ricki opens the coveralls to the waist, and knots the sleeves there with familiar practice, cleans the grease off his hands one last time, then climbs gingerly on the equipment to see if he's succeeded in repairing himself an outlet.
He rows until he's dripping with sweat, and he feels less pent up, less brittle. He rows until he has sweat in his eyes, until he has to sit foward and put both feet on the ground, and shove the damp hair back out of his face.
Ricki has one or two tattoos, which are old-timey by most standards but were modern in his day. He has two or three scars, which are a little more contemporary: knife, bullet, knife.
His expression is flat, somehow, still deeply introspective, totally focused. It only regains animation when he realizes he's no longer alone. He affects a charming little half smile, and offers, breathlessly;
"I'll be right off it, if you're after a turn."
» WHEN? Today
» WHERE? The hall, the bar, the fitness area.
» WHAT? A new arrival, poking his nose into things and making himself a menace.
» WARNINGS? Potentially a little light violence.
1. Ricki handles the kidnapping with a particular lack of grace. He comes to in a bedroom, slips out into the hallway, and makes his way along with a nearly silent step.
At the next blind corner he hears the sound of approaching footsteps, and makes an entirely unconscious decision. He steps aside, puts his back to the wall, and waits until the person has stepped past him.
It's only the fact that the person who goes by is wearing a jumpsuit like his that keeps the encounter from becoming immediately violent. Instead, he settles for slipping forwards, and asking, deliberately just a little too close for comfort;
"Baby, if this is a work event, then I want it on record that I think the bosses have really lost the plot this time."
2. Ricki slips into the bar his first night on board, and helps himself to a seat with the kind of view professionals like- all exits, all corners of the room, left side of his body against the wall so his dominant arm is in play if he needs it. Back to the corner is more conspicuous, but this is telling too if you know what you're looking for.
He goes to his seat with a drink in hand, a couple of thumbs of something translucent, and settles in to watch the crowd go by. To watch for the other people who are also watching.
3. The exercise is in the same kind of disrepair as the rest of the place, but when Ricki steps into it, it feels familiar. He's exercised in dirtier, stranger places than this with much more makeshift equipment. So it needs a coat of paint- so what?
He's heard the rumours about what happens to your muscles in this kind of not-gravity. He's lived in places more cramped than this. It isn't just the desire to fiddle while Rome burns that has him attacking one of the more familiar pieces of equipment with a rag and soapy water. With the grunge soaked away, a chain reattached, and a few makeshift adjustments, in a few hours he ends up with a mostly serviceable erg machine.
Ricki opens the coveralls to the waist, and knots the sleeves there with familiar practice, cleans the grease off his hands one last time, then climbs gingerly on the equipment to see if he's succeeded in repairing himself an outlet.
He rows until he's dripping with sweat, and he feels less pent up, less brittle. He rows until he has sweat in his eyes, until he has to sit foward and put both feet on the ground, and shove the damp hair back out of his face.
Ricki has one or two tattoos, which are old-timey by most standards but were modern in his day. He has two or three scars, which are a little more contemporary: knife, bullet, knife.
His expression is flat, somehow, still deeply introspective, totally focused. It only regains animation when he realizes he's no longer alone. He affects a charming little half smile, and offers, breathlessly;
"I'll be right off it, if you're after a turn."