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
It could be if you hadn't spent the last couple of centuries stuck on ice, doing nothing. Probably had been a good thing he hadn't really been aware of it either. His stack had just been filed away until someone rich and needy had come along and decided to wake him up.
"Dying still hurts, though," Kovacs said lest Ricki or anyone think he goes out there with the intent to get hit by a car or get shot in the stomach. It still hurt like a motherfucker.
"And there's no guarantee I get a good sleeve in the aftermath," he sighed. "That's the bitch of it."
no subject
Ricki catches, perhaps belatedly. It isn't really a question, because he can guess what it means from context. It's the logistics, however, that really give him pause.
"And where does a sleeve come from?"
Please tell him they're already vacant prior to- what, implantation?
no subject
Quell was so much better at this shit.
"Well, you're not going to be able to buy one at the store." Not unless you were a Meth, something Kovacs was most definitely not. "Someone dies, you've got yourself a sleeve. You take what you can afford."
no subject
Says Ricki, corner of his mouth turning up.
"And here I was nervous you'd judge me for the complex realities and moral ambiguities I live with."
Well, at least it's awfully nice not to feel judged?
no subject
"If people don't want it happening, they religiously code themselves and stay dead," he elaborates a little further. "Or they do something to the sleeve that makes it impossible to use. Burning beyond recognition is a pretty popular way to go."
Not that he knows that for sure. It's not like there are researchers studying that that he knows of.
no subject
He's having a difficult time deciding how he feels about this. Until two minutes ago Ricki would have called himself a firm atheist. But the religious voices of his childhood are rearing up unexpectedly, wondering about the state of the soul.
no subject
"When someone dies and their sleeve becomes available, they just slide that stack right into the empty body and turn you on. You're still you. Still have all your memories from your birthday."
Unless you were some fucking idiot like Dimi the Twin and fragged yourself so hard that you had memories of yourself and your fucknut of a brother.
"Only me inside of here," he says, tapping his head. "Lucky for everyone on this station."
no subject
If he's understanding this correctly. To live a life with that kind of leeway, and suddenly ending up just like the rest of them? That's a lot of wiggle room to suddenly lose.
"New rules, new game."
For the both of them.