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."
no subject
And there he went, covering up some of the interesting parts. He'd just been settling into try and figure out what weapon those sorts of scars might have come from and if those tattoos were professionally done or if he'd been a jailhouse boy, getting them to show how tough he was.
"I like to watch."
Kovacs absolutely knows the double meaning behind the words and that's the biggest reason he'd used that specific phrase. He doesn't think this guy's going to fluster but it's always fun to try.
"You mind? Or are you shy?"
no subject
But it only makes Ricki chuckle, grabbing one elbow and tugging it up and over his head, a slow, steady cool-down stretch. It exposes the corner of one tattoo, on the forearm, a sailor jerry-ish design of extremely dubious quality.
"You're lucky it's me you found, I'll tell you that for free."
And, since he's here and reasonably friendly.
"You haven't found any cigarettes kicking their way around, have you?"
no subject
Break his fucking ribs instead, why don't you.
"It'd just make me prettier."
His ego was healthy if it was nothing else. He smirked, eyes scanning over that tattoo and filing it away for later consideration. Had to learn what he was up against if he was going to keep himself occupied on this tin can.
"No, and it's fucking killing me," Kovacs says melodramatically. This place looks like it's been wiped clean. Kovacs knows there's gotta be something lurking below all that shine that gives a clue on who's come before them but he hasn't gotten around to looking.
Hasn't gotten around to finding a fucking cigarette either.
"Been substituting alcohol whenever I get a craving."
no subject
Instead, you over-exercise. Other arm, up and over for stretching, while he considers Kovacs right back. Same uniform jumpsuit, and difficult to say whether he got that stubble here, or what he'd look like back home. Mostly, though Ricki notices the way that he watches. He isn't just meeting his eyes, or even searching his expression, he's looking at details.
"When did you get here, then?"
no subject
It's just another thing to add to the list of why this place doesn't make sense. If they're here for a reason, Kovacs would really like to know that fucking reason. If this is some long term set up for some VR torture, he'd rather just have his eyes pulled out now because he has no patience for this kind of waiting.
"Been here..." He trails off and pretends to count off on his fingers before coming to his answer. "Not even a week. Feels like it's been longer since I can't fucking leave."
no subject
Moving from his arms, to his spine now, executing a gentle back bend. He keeps his voice casual, but the truth of it is that Ricki is terribly, coldly furious. Start to finish.
"I've been here a day and a half and I'm ready to climb the fucking walls."
no subject
Just not for him. All that movement and you didn't even get paid? That would be a hard pass from Kovacs.
"Can't imagine that working out's going to hold your attention forever," he says idly, rubbing a thumb along his lip. "You're not gonna start ripping heads off necks if you're still here next week, right?"
no subject
Answers Ricki, eyebrows lifting up a tad, as he straightens.
"Bit of a violent group, is it?" He can see it. The people look suspicious of one another. There are too many people on board obviously caught up in some kind of rich, inner life; there's just a lack of stockbrokers, primary school teachers, ordinary people, over all. "I'll keep my temper, until the moment I'm not taking my feelings out on another victim of the kidnapping. Once someone who's in charge turns up, at that point I'll reevaluate."
"What about you? Being good so far?"
no subject
Thank goodness for Quell and her lessons or he'd probably be trying to kill every single person on board simply for the fact that his sister had been taken away from him again.
"As for me, haven't snapped yet," Kovacs says, shrugging. There's a thin smile on his face, one that says that snapping could be a possibility. "But tomorrow's another day. Maybe that'll be the magic one."
no subject
Proposes Ricki, idly, while he stretches a calf out, leaning into it thoughtfully.
"You can see it in a few sets of eyes, around, more than you and I. It's a tough crowd. It could be fun."
no subject
"I was just going to let it happen and then enjoy my nice new digs once everyone took each other out," he drawls, smirking slightly. "I don't necessarily like the sound of my own voice but I am a great conversationalist when I want to be."
He'd probably get bored after about the second hour of that but no need to reveal that. If it happened, he'd drink himself into a coma or rip his own stack out.
no subject
Snapping a hand out, an imaginary blow at an invisible foe.
"If these are nice digs compared to where you were living last, then you were doing even worse than I was. You from Earth, then?"
Ricki had been staying in a shitty little crevasse in the very bad part of Paris. There had been roaches and mildew and at least one knife fight a week, and he would do anything in the world to be back there right now. He's sure the impulse is two parts freedom, one part food.
no subject
"I was staying at a pretty swanky hotel," Kovacs tell him, rolling his eyes, "run by an artificial intelligence who wouldn't stop letting people into my fucking room."
Poe had his uses and he was pretty fucking good with a gun but he was a shit concierge when he wanted to be. Still, the Raven was better than sleeping in the street. Had to make use of Bancroft's money somehow.
no subject
He answers, more than a little amused by this non-answer.
"Talk me through this. This is the very first time in my life it hasn't been an absolute fucking given."
He should know more about what kind of arrangements there are out there, he figures, if he himself is going to be doing the lost in space thing.
no subject
It seemed pretty straightforward and simple to him. If it had been possible, he would have stayed on Harlan's World for the entirety of his fucking life. He would have contented himself with looking at the songspire trees and trekking through the dense forests.
But, that was before the death and blood and stink. That was before Stronghold.
"If it's gonna be too much for you, you can just think I'm from Earth. I've spent enough time there, shitty as it is."
no subject
Is what he'd like to know, just to start with.
"Is there interplanetary conflict? Who rules Earth, has it consolidated as one power in the face of outsiders?"
no subject
"Last cop who did this to me I ended up sleeping with so you better be careful," he continues, swallowing down the mess of complex feelings that come with thinking of that moment.
"So, I'm going to pick two of those questions and answer them," Kovacs decides, sliding his tongue along his lower lip. "I'm a fucking human being. There's one. The people who have money rule the Earth. There's two. Thank you for your questions but please refer any other inquiries to the suggestion box on my door. I'll get around to them in a couple of years."
no subject
He reminds him, at very nearly a sing-song, with a laugh, not taking the brush off personally, but considering the point won. There's plenty to go into, and pleant he'll have to get out of him at a later time.
"Well, you can call me Ricki, and if you have any very curious questions about Earth in the 1970s and roughly the thirty five years previous, I'd be more than happy to return the favour. Although most of what I'll be able to tell you has to do with Brixton, so it isn't really much of an offer."
no subject
"Kovacs," he says, figuring he ought to give a name in return. "1970, huh? Fuck, that was a long time ago. I wasn't even a glint in the eye of my father. I don't think my father was even a sparkle in someone's eye at that point. Too bad it didn't stay that way."
World would have been a better place but then, he also wouldn't have ever come into existence and the world would have been sad.
"What the hell were you doing in 1970, Ricki?" Kovacs asks him. "Besides getting the fluffiest of hair."
no subject
And, because he may as well clarify;
"Seventy six. Is it so distant that the history is meaningless? All those old rancours long buried, nations and states risen and fallen, absorbed and spat out again? I hear rumours that Mars is the big bad in the future to come."
For that matter;
"Tell me you're not at war with my planet? I'll be extremely upset if you are."
no subject
Kovacs scoffs at the notion. There is no one worse than fucking Earth. Earth who thinks they run the show, Earth who delights in killing other worlds and birthing Meths that live in the sky so they can look down at those on the ground.
Fuck Earth.
"No, it's Earth that you need to be worried about. My planet's not at war with yours. Or anyone's." Harlan's World was pretty much dead. Only ghosts lived there, ghosts that he wanted back but had no idea what he'd do with if he got his wish.
"It's 2384 where I'm from, friend," he says, the word falling from his lips like a curse. "Your time is distant and it's meaningless. To me, at least. I'm sure there's historians hidden away that might like to pick your brain. What's it gonna do but give me a educational lesson that I don't really need?"
no subject
Because one thing they do have plenty of is time on their hands. The question is going to be not going absolutely insane while they spend it.
"You haven't told me yet what you were up to on your not-warline planet in the year 2384."
Something nefarious, he honestly hopes.
no subject
There was a lot of information in not so many words there, Kovacs knew. He was curious as to which part Ricki would pick up on first and what, if anything, he'd question.
"Before that..." He trails off and shrugs again. "Doing a little mercenary work for those that paid the most. I made my own hours and didn't have to wear a fucking uniform. Always made my hips look too big."
no subject
Wrinkling his nose at the prospect. Being burned by confessional letters from the dead had been bad enough, never mind any kind of lucidity or decision making.
"When did death end?"
no subject
There were a few caveats, of course. Even if death wasn't permanent anymore, you still couldn't escape it fully. Death was one of those constants that you could resist and resist and it would still find a way to take you eventually.
"Find a religiously coded person or someone who got their stack all shot up and they're gonna stay dead," he shares, mock wincing. "Death still exists. It's just a little bit harder to stay dead for the duration. Gotta know where to put the bullet."
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