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» WHO? The Roci Crew and whoever else wants in on this mess
» WHEN? after the gravity is back
» WHERE? A few different places
» WHAT? A few different prompts as well as a catch-all for any roci crew or related logs for the month of june
» WARNINGS? these are all just terrible people what do you want from me

001: Alex, Bobbie and Amos are Judging You

The Martians and the Earther are sitting at a table in the Mess Hall, and they've started a game. That game? To rate everyone else on the ship in order of attractiveness. Want to be rated? Find the comment header below, drop a picture in of your character, and watch the comments fly. Feel free to overhear them and give them hell.

002: Closed, Alex >> Frank

Going on the morning walk-about to search for Holden was ritual, at this point, and Alex was very used to Frank coming over first thing before they headed out. So the door was already open, waiting for him. Alex was fishing through his drawers, trying to find where he'd stashed that singular glove that he'd found, to show him for a laugh. But instead his fingers found something else - a thin sheet of plastic, creased and bent a hundred thousand times, and Alex's heart nearly stopped.

He pulled it out of the drawer like it was made of plutonium, careful not to touch the edges of the drawer with it.

Christ. Oh, Christ.

003: Open, Alex >> Anyone who wants to find this wrecked man.

He goes straight to the bar.

It's not that he isn't a fairly regular fixture there, anyway, but especially right now, all he really wants is to drink until he numbs everything. So hi, have a depressed Martian with a bottle of who knows what, sitting at the bar and just staring at a picture of a woman and a child smiling lovingly at the camera. He keeps stroking his thumb over it, then looking wrecked and saying something like 'god damn it' under his breath before he pours himself another drink. One of his arms is still wrapped up in a sling against his chest.

If he recognizes you, he might look up when you get close, and sigh. "Hey, partner. Everythin' alright?" Because it's a lot easier to worry about other people, than to keep being miserable about yourself.

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He looks up, watching Mike with an expression of pure sympathy.

"... I'm sorry." It isn't said lightly. He thinks he can take the final meaning - he doubts very much that Lucas is alive. He tries to think of Melas dying from some plague while he was half a system away and it tears through his chest. The only reason he has been able to deal, at all, with being so far and so long out of contact is the knowledge that Melas is safe.

And he's not even sure that's true, anymore.

"Things were- things are pretty ragged between us, too. She, uh. They both - they think I'm dead." He let out a breath, looking at the picture. "Before this, I mean. They already thought I was dead."

Maybe Alex is expecting condemnation. Maybe a part of him is even hoping for it. But Mike doesn't oblige. Instead he listens, then slowly pushes off his stool to reach over the bar for a glass of his own.

"There are worse things," he says lowly, glass clicking as he bottle tips and taps the rim of his glass. "It's an answer. Maybe not the right one, but at least they aren't wondering what happened. Asking themselves why, or trying to figure out what they should have done."

He watches the liquid pour, then pushed his own glass closer.

"... I'd been gone five years, already," he murmured quietly. "Then the Donnager went down when I was on it. From the outside, just - a blaze of glory."

Better a husband and father who had died a hero, than one still living as a failure.

He skips the bottle from his glass to Alex's, mystery booze splashing happily.

"The last time I spoke to my wife, she told me our son was dead, and that she and our daughters had left for a safe zone." The bottle comes up empty and he sets it aside. "When I got there, they were gone. Not dead... the whole place was just gone. Abandoned. That was three years ago."

He picks up his glass and drinks.

"... Shit."

It isn't eloquent, but it's heartfelt. Raw. He watches Mike, his expression nothing but sympathy.

"That - They could still be out there, though, right? If you didn't find 'em, then at least that means they could still be out there--"

But losing a son? That was enough to ruin a man. He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. "... We-- Melas should have been one of four. I know it - ain't the same, as losing a kid you got to - to meet, to hold, but--"

But it had still torn holes in him that he could never fill again.

Mike's full glass dips to half with just one swallow. He holds it a beat, the fire of it battling the heat crawling up the back of his throat. Then he knocks back the rest of it, the silver band on his hand catching the light as his head tips back.

"...I keep looking," he rasps when the liquor is gone. The empty glass slips heavily between his fingers, dropping against the bartop with a thick click. "Keep... hanging in there."

He looks at Alex, the corners of his mouth turned deeply down; his voice suddenly deep.

"They're gone-- but the job's still there. There, and here, now."

Edited 2018-06-15 11:30 (UTC)

He reaches out, carefully putting a hand on Mike's shoulder, steady and warm.

"... I'm sorry, Mike." It sounded like his heart was breaking, and maybe it was. He didn't know what else to say. What else was there to say?

Mike doesn't deny him, and lets the hand rest there as he nods.

"Me too."

Then he takes a deep breath, steadying, a mental stitch of his lingering wounds.

"...Well, you were right. I'm not blind yet, so how's about another round?"

He gives a squeeze, then his hand falls away to reach out across the bar instead, and pours them both another drink.

"Think that sounds like what the doctor ordered, partner."