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
He agrees, though he's going mostly by the size of the habitat rings they've been moved into so far.
"But then, where are they? Why do this to us without a word of explanation?"
no subject
"Uh, I think this goes a bit beyond the typical backbiting."
Maybe. It occurs to him then that as normal as the guy sounds, that might necessarily be the case. He wouldn't have guessed Alex was from outer space when he'd first met the guy.
"You talked to anyone else?" he asks slowly, eyeing Ricki carefully again. "Been by one of the windows yet?"
no subject
He promises, grimly, crossing his arms and casting a glance over his shoulder in the direction of the observation window he found.
"It's definitely not what I signed up for."
In that oh so innocent import and export business he definitely has.
no subject
"I've been meaning to take a vacation, but this is ridiculous." He lifts his chin at Ricki. "When are you from? Space travel's still a dream for me and mine."
no subject
He admits, letting out a breath, and shaking his head.
"Far from all this. Everyone else I've spoken to is three hundred years down the line- tell me you're from some-when good and sensible?"
no subject
"Depends. ...I was seven in 1976." And clearly, he's well past that now. "I'm from 2016."
no subject
He says, but without rancour.
He's got a lot of catching up to do.
"At least you can tell me about the end of the cold war beyond vague proclamations of 'oh, we're at war with Mars now, it just sort of ended.'"
no subject
"Would if I could." Genially, he rolls his shoulders. Then, smile fading, he struggles to remember all his history lessons at Annapolis. "Soviet-Afghan war, nuclear arms race, revolutions..." He trails off, and gets to the point. "The U.S.S.R. was formally dissolved in '91."
no subject
Observes Ricki, still congenially. Not really. Yes really. Hard to say, it's a day by day thing with him.
"Now I just have to find my way back and give everyone the good news."
no subject
Mike, conversely, knows exactly where his feelings lie. Watching a nuclear attack on France and being chased across two oceans did that.
"But that's the goal. Everyone's trying to figure out how."
no subject
Ricki wonders;
"I've been given the orientation, but I don't know- where I'm exactly supposed to go? How the time is passed?"
no subject
It wasn't good news, or even particularly helpful, but it was the best Mike had for him, and honesty always counted for something in his book.
"There's a plan in the works to try and get some of the inaccessible areas open, but it's slow going because no one knows what might be locked up. In the meantime--" he trails off, head bobbing. "The first cabin you passed will be yours, some residual syncing program. Some people find things inside, some don't."