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Entry tags:

an assortment

Passengers: Viktor + i. Grace / ii. Conner
Location: i. Storage Complex / ii. Mess Hall
Date: i. today / ii. backdated to temp assignment day
Summary: i. spook show / ii. meet n greet
Warnings: tbd

i. for Grace: g-g-g-ghost

Nearly twenty days have passed since Archimedes designated aisle 253 of the storage complex a temporary workspace and unlocked the necessary equipment. By the owl's estimate, the replacement item may arrive anywhere from fourteen to twenty-three days from now.

Viktor has been spending more time in this space of late, which amounts to less sleep, and while he has diligently refused to compromise his wardening hours, the fact remains he is definitely not looking his best. Whatever his best even looks like anymore. He's pretty sure the Peregrine's advanced infirmary is the only thing keeping him running; it's stolen time, so he ought to use as much of it as he can. (He's determined to cover as much of this project as possible without soliciting any help, but that clock is running down, too.)

And so, here he is, hunched on the stool he scavenged. By now he's accumulated some useful odds and ends from among the rows and elsewhere, and otherwise snooped around to sate his curiosity. Ease of access was initially limiting; as soon as he found a suitable prybar it was all over. (Most of these items have never left the storage complex, so technically they have only been misplaced.) (The prybar came from the loading bay but we don't have to talk about that.)

So here he is, on the stool, soldering iron in hand, respirator mask on, goggles up in his hair where they do absolutely no good, sitting up because he's heard something atypical amid the sounds of the automated machines.

"Hello?" Seconds pass. He pulls the mask down under his chin. "Grace?"

Please let it be Grace.

ii. for Conner: we are go for lunch

Viktor is awake for the Navarch's monthly address at 0700, and for once it isn't because he hasn't been to bed. Awake physically, anyway. Cognitively? Eh. He listens to the preamble with a dull expression and his cheek bunched up behind his fist. Blah, blah, thirty days... oh, limited files, that's new...

Warden Viktor, she says, paired with Conner Jaskulski.

Upon hearing this, Viktor frowns, because he tends to frown at many things initially—it's his go-to expression these days—and picks up his CommLink to address the incoming temp file, the alert buzzing in his hand as he's opening it. And the file, it says,

Well. It doesn't say murder, at least.

The mention of welding, that's promising—already more than he had in common with his last inmate. Maybe he can work that in as a sanctioned activity and get Archimedes to unlock yet another class of tools. It would be nice to mess around with a torch. Officially. First things first, though.

Within ten minutes of the broadcast, he opens with a message:

id: viktor: Mess Hall, 11:30

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Blip.

She wasn't there-- and then she is, because she always has been there, of course, it's just that Viktor couldn't always see her, and that works out best for them both. Plausible deniability, privacy, fewer distractions. If there's one thing she has in common with Viktor, it's that they both well understand the material benefits of loneliness.

Also how much it sucks, she presumes, not that she's ever asked.

Anyway. She's there now, and she's got a cup of coffee with a spill-proof lid in her hands, which she offers to Viktor with a rueful smile.

"Sorry," she says, automatically, because she's always sorry to be anywhere, "Did I scare you?"

Blip, and he jumps, like someone's just stuck a cold hand up his shirt.

Did I scare you, she asks, while he works on swallowing his heart back down to where it's supposed to sit. The coffee's presence verges on incongruous. At first he seems to have trouble interpreting it as an object; then he does, and his expression becomes a bewildered variant on what the fff (yes, that specifically); then he pops a sigh and reaches to take it. He nearly just ejected his own skeleton, but sure. Fine.

"Yes," she scared the hell out of him, and his eyebrows are mad about it. The rest of him may or may not be (but probably is). And yet, "Thank you." For this cup. Which he is now holding. A breath in for nerves, out for patience.

"How long have you been there?"

That is precisely what the coffee is for: apology, and mitigation of her own constantly and unintentionally negative presence in someone else's space. Even when somebody doesn't drink coffee, it's still a clear shorthand for a mea culpa that nearly everyone understands.

It's not a perfect solution, though-- and here's an example, in the form of someone who just had the shit scared out of them, who clearly does not appreciate being set on the back foot in their own space. Grace winces, apologetically. (Everything is apologetic.)

"Do you mean here as in right here, or in storage? Or on the ship? Or like, existentially?" Some of those answers are more difficult than others.

"You know what I mean." He's holding the cup with both hands. Just holding it. You wouldn't know it to look at him, but its warmth is mollifying. Maybe that's why he decides, "Egh, it doesn't matter, just— please, do not sneak up on me like that."

The space Viktor has claimed, such as it is, is all makeshift: lightweight metal pallets stacked on a wheeled jack meant to convey them, said wheels being currently locked. The topmost pallet has a smooth surface—he's also scrounged up a square of broadly corrugated plastic, convenient for keeping little screws and things from rolling away. The few low crates that were already here provide a convenient arrangement of improvised side tables, and he borrowed (stole) a few utility lamps for light. These and the soldering iron currently on deck are powered by a portable power station roughly the size of a toolbox, unless the mods read this and decide no, in which case I will change it. He also brought a blanket, not currently in use, because sometimes he gets cold.

All in all, it's actually kind of cozy, if you squint. You know, besides the haunting industrial atmosphere and perpetual crush risk.

Anyway, "Did you need something?"

"Sorry," again, because Grace will never stop apologizing for her existence. Ever. And she is sorry that she scares people; sorrier than anyone will ever truly understand.

"Nothing, really, just curious how the work is coming along. Fixing the destroying-things-machine, I mean. In case we might need it." She shrinks away from the makeshift table, because she knows her presence is unwanted and unnecessary, and trying to make friends with the other occupant of the warehouse has been something she'd put off for too long, and now explaining that actually she'd been there practically every day for longer than he had now would probably not result in said friendship.

Still. Worth it to try. Probably.

They're on a first-name basis, at least.

Sort of. Despite having the option, he still addresses her as Ms Gibson by default—except, apparently, when he's ill at ease and reflexively reaching for something familiar. And Viktor himself has only the one name, so there isn't much of a choice there.

But still.

"It's coming," he says, and looks to the table. The clutter is more or less arranged to suit his habit, everything laid out where he expects it to be. The machine itself is— well. It's around. The most recognizable pieces of it are on the floor, waiting their turn; the current patient looks like a bit of junk with wires attached. (It basically is.)

"Slowly. We'd be further along if—"

If he weren't doing this by himself, and he said we just now, didn't he. Yes he did. Something passes across his face like an afternoon shadow, starting between his eyebrows and ending on a slight twist of his mouth, there and gone again.

"If the manual were on paper. Easier to look at. Bigger surface area."

She knows it's just politeness, but there's always a little bit of an internal cringe whenever someone refers to her by her last name only. Just a teeny tiny reminder that she's a part of her shitty family, forever. Not that anyone on this spaceship millions of miles away from anything remotely resembling home knows that. Anyway.

"Maybe Archimedes could have it printed out for you? Or maybe you could buy a full diagram from the Commissary when it comes around again? If you haven't got it figured out by then, which I bet you could." He is some kind of engineering-science-genius-type, isn't he? That was the impression she got. He got a little hung up on the we in his sentence, though-- maybe he's not used to working on his own.

"Is there anything you don't understand yet? I think I heard your discipline is a little different from this, somewhere."

Part of that sounded like flattery, which is the part he deliberately ignores, not least because it slices at him somewhere inside—something in the phrasing, the way they're situated—

"It... yes. Yes and no. The fundamentals are the same, it's just... the complexity of it. The technology's function is unfamiliar, let alone what's inside. And some of these materials, I've never encountered. For example, this plastic," he says, and takes one hand off the cup to lift a wire connector. (It looks a little like the cap for a small marker.) "We don't have this. And some of these wires are made of an alloy I cannot identify. I have to take it on faith that they will behave predictably unless the manual tells me otherwise."

And it's hard to work with a glove. Hard to work like normal when his muscle memory is still adjusting for the strange fingers inside that glove. Can it even be called muscle? Bone? What is he now? He can't even practice without it in case someone like Grace comes along and sees—

"You don't have plastic? That's probably for the best. Where I'm from there's so much trash plastic that there's a huge floating garbage pile of it polluting the ocean. And making it is a big problem, and recycling it takes a ton of energy and resources... You're better off without it."

But you know what, it makes a lot of stuff. God only knows how much of what she's wearing currently is made of polyester or acrylic or elastic or whatever else. No ethical consumption, et cetera, but it still makes her feel guilty to think about. Guilty and cranky. Moving on.

"...Anyway. It seems like it's a lot to ask of you. Isn't there anyone who could help? I don't know about wardens with degrees, but Alex is one of my inmates this month, he's a... molecular biologist, or something? He's got degrees, anyway."

Grace is extremely unhelpful, but you know what, she is trying, and maybe that counts for something!! ...Or maybe not. Viktor seems kind of crabby that she's even standing there. Maybe he'd be better off enjoying his coffee in peace...

"No, I— I don't need a biologist." He tosses the connector down, gently. Its landing rattle is benign. "I just need time."

Funny how that can still be true, even in this liminal situation they occupy—and he did it to himself this time, so he can't even be mad about it. A huge floating garbage pile sounds accurate, he thinks on a delay, without any concrete idea as to what it's meant to represent. Everything, maybe. Just things in general.

He certainly is in some kind of mood. Guilty and cranky.

After a moment, he sighs softly. His voice settles low.

"No one forced this on me, anyway. I offered. Archimedes is sending a replacement, so there will be a machine in the command room either way... maybe two, if I can fix this one. I'm just... trying to beat the delivery," he adds, with a one-shoulder shrug. "Just because."

"The challenge is the fun part, right? Even though it's frustrating? The science guy I know back home, Robbie, he's the same way. The harder it is, the more fun. Like it's a puzzle to solve."

A beat.

"Is that why you came here?"

"Not exactly."

Moving on—

"But yes, there is truth to what you've said."

A few days ago he was telling Aki what a good time he was having with this, and now here he is bitching about it—granted, he'd been unintentionally inhaling fumes at the time, but still. It's not really that bad, is it?

Tilting his head in concession, "And yes, it has been frustrating at times. But, the manual is very comprehensive, the instructions are suitably, eh... instructional... and I'm closer to understanding not only how the Destroy-It is put together, but how it operates, and why." If he didn't keep taking detours to research every new thing he encounters, actually, he might be done already. "That is the best part. The discovery. That and having something that works," is a wry addition.

No, this mood is definitely about his hand.

His hand, which is holding a cup, the lid of which he now carefully pops open so he can peer inside.

Grace smiles-- it actually reaches her eyes this time. It's less creepy, when it's genuine.

"Baking is the same way. It's chemistry, you know, understanding what all the ingredients do in each ratio and putting them together correctly to come up with something successful, and then at the end, you get some delicious treats to share. Like um... a reward, for your work. Reinforcement. Plus, people like you more when you provide things."

Working technology, yummy brownies. Coffee. It's all the same.

This puff of air, soft through his nostrils, suggests Viktor acknowledges the idea of laughter and declines to participate, thank you.

"Usually, yes."

Sometimes they take and use and benefit from the things provided while preferring not to acknowledge your personhood, and also they make you live in a toxic hole in the ground.
But this conversation needn't go there.

He tastes what Grace brought him, tentatively, the smallest sip, while still holding the lid separate. Other than looking down into the cup while he swallows, he doesn't immediately react, which would be a good sign if she knew him very well.

"Is that what you normally do? Baking?"

"Yes. Well, not professionally, no, I work in publishing. I just like it. Sometimes you have to do something that feels more productive than reading and making corrections endlessly for hours and hours at a time, even when it's something you love to do, you know?"

Probably not. This guy's usual job is way more productive no matter what way you look at it. Still.

"I'd be baking here too, if we had the facilities for doing it. James and I grump about that a lot. He cooks, back home. We're both going a little nuts without it, I guess. Harder to feel useful." She hugs her arms, watches him eyeballing his coffee with a suspicion used for poisonous substances-- which she figures is probably a normal reaction to the flavor if somebody's not used to it. "Maybe we should be focusing more on helping our inmates instead, but, you know... easier said than done. How do you find it? The wardening?"

He's replacing the lid as Grace talks, pressing it down with care until he feels the muted pop of the rim seating itself. Satisfying.

Publishing, productivity, James, wanting to be useful. Though he isn't looking directly at her—he would rather not, though he hasn't noticed this yet, nor begun to consider why—Viktor is listening. He straightens out of his slouch while he considers the question, almost as a stretch, shortly sinks back into it. (Muted, gliding components seating themselves along his spine. Satisfying.)

"It's fine."

Yeah, that was a bullshit reflex answer, and his body language acknowledges as much, particularly in the way he pushes a finger under the goggle band above his ear in fidgety pursuit of some little itch, and the face he makes while doing so.

Does he correct himself? No. No, he does not.

"You seem enthusiastic. Hiding out in storage all day."

This is a gentle razz, said with a small smile, because. Look who's talking. She has her reasons too, of course, it's just the sort of reasons that go hand-in-hand with 'avoiding your responsibilities because you're afraid you're terrible at them' as a motivating factor. Nobody isolates themselves alone in a room full of storage containers and dangerous robots because they're great at doing other stuff.

"I have not been here all day," is all grumble, no bite, with a muttered concession right on its tail: "Only some of it."

On the way to another sip, "Most of it."

As he's clearing a space, putting the cup down, he decides, "If they don't like it, they can fire me."

He's kidding, probably. Not that it's easy to tell. (If she knew him very well, beyond how he conducts himself when he thinks no one is watching, it would be.)

Conner's got absolutely no idea what to expect from this whole... anything. It's not hardly his first time being under somebody's thumb. He may not have technically been a prisoner working for LAND, but his time there was the furthest thing from voluntary. Not much of a stretch to say he's keeping his expectations gutter-low.

Everybody's always got good intentions, haven't they? Never seems like they do many good things with those intentions.

Viktor gets a nice, crisp but polite;

Aye, boss.

He's there on time. Punctuality's been drilled into him for near a decade, and he's claimed a seat ten minutes 'til. No tray, no food, naught but himself and his linked fingers settled atop the table.

With a few months now under his belt, Viktor is—not exactly comfortable in this position, but getting closer to acclimated. It's not his first time being the thumb, as it were, but it's been a long time, and the context is very different—any comparable elements are vastly outweighed by the stakes, for one. The pressure is constant. It's a lot.

He does have the advantage of a directory, and so identifies Conner on sight. The same won't be true in reverse, but considering he's the only one entering at this time—in fact, arriving just shortly after Conner has settled himself—this is likely not a difficult guess.

So: Conner's temporary warden is a man of average height, bent shorter and leaning on a crutch; he's thin as a rail, with sharp cheeks and deep-set eyes; his pallor suggests more than lack of sunlight. His eyebrows are mildly threatening even when relaxed, which they are not currently, though the crease between them seems natural. Also, he could probably use a haircut. Or just... a brush, honestly...

Anyway, Viktor slopes his way over, tapping crutch and steady gaze. No tray, no food,

"Conner Jaskulski." No difficulty pronouncing his name. "You're early."

If he had to sketch out an image of what he'd been expecting (which he'd bloody love to do if he could just get some paper and practically anything to draw with), it wouldn't have been this guy. It would've been some... six and a half foot tall mustachio'd prison guard with too much authority billowed up his arse like smoke.

Color him impressed when that name comes rolling out like it's natural.

"Spot on, on that name mate. Usually takes at least two tries," it's kind of a self-directed mumble, not really something demanding a response. He tends to mutter to himself just loud enough for an audience at times. A slightly more audible answer comes a beat later, "Punctuality's a bit of a habit. Take it you're my handler for the round, then?"

"If that's what you prefer to call it."

His voice is naturally soft; his accent, comparable to some flavour of Slavic, plucks softly at consonants. He grasps the chair across from Conner, pulls it carefully to avoid a noisy scrape. When he sits, he flicks the crutch out from under his arm and turns it in his gloved hand like he's performed this same movement hundreds of times. (He has.)

"My name is Viktor. As you no doubt heard." And he is relieved to be sitting, though he doesn't show it overtly. "And yes, for the next thirty days or so, I will be minding you and your habits." It doesn't sound rote when he says it, no trace of a script. "You've been aboard for roughly a week now—is that correct?"

He knows it is.

Eavesdropping on a conversation between the two of them would probably be a bit like the accent version of listening to dueling banjos. A little melodic, a little contrasting, a little complimentary, a lot amusing. Smooth on one side, twang on the other.

Handler isn't necessarily what he'd prefer to call it, it's just the word that comes to mind — not with the most pleasant connotation. It rings back to what he'd called his superior when he worked for LAND, though if he cared to think about it, it might occur to him that she'd grown on him over the course of a few years. Might bring a little optimism to his skepticism.

"Give or take," he agrees with a little sway. "Time flies."

Which is a much more lax take on the truth — he's got it pinned down to practically the hour. That's not the type of thing you go announcing, though.

Truly a battle of lilts. Too bad no one else is around to listen in just now—their loss.

"Sometimes." An hourglass in the back of his mind, always ticking grains of sand. Briefly tipping his head, "Less so once the novelty wears off. Or so one assumes."

For him it still hasn't. It may never. A journey through liminal spacetime? On a starship? With autonomous robots? He'll stop being into it when he's dead. For now, though, there's mundane stuff to consider:

"How much of the ship have you seen? Has anyone shown you the restricted areas?" Someone should have have done this by now—in his opinion, everyone should be provided a tour—but given there's next to no protocol for new inmates once they've been brought aboard and shown the little orientation video, he figures he ought to check. "The infirmary, the athletics room, and so on."

Same page here — he'd have a hard time estimating when the novelty will wear off of a post-death space ship prison. Seems like that might be one of those things that keeps on being novel every time you remember where you actually are, for at least a handful of years. Then again, some people here may not agree. There are far more remarkable worlds and situations.

The actual bloody devil himself is here, for example.

"Not officially," is his careful answer. He's a quiet and unobtrusive presence, he doesn't draw enough attention to himself to inspire any tour offerings. He's also not the type to feel comfortable in his environment without knowing it anymore, so he's done a bit of... scoping. A bit of unannounced piggybacking to at least get a glance inside some of the places he can't go on his own.

He's not exactly sure how well-received snooping would be with this bloke, so the implication stays unspoken. Instead he'll go with, "I know where everythin' is, I think."

There's something in this little turn of his head, the angle, the way he barely engages the ledge of his eyebrows—it may be a tough read. There's definitely a knowing quality to it. He isn't smiling, but he'd might as well be.

"I see."

After a pause, abandoning whatever that was for a more neutral posture,

"If you are interested in visiting these areas, officially, they can be made available to you. All except the storage complex. It's generally frowned upon to visit the infirmary without a good reason, as well... but, if you have yet to see the Auto-Doc in action, I recommend it."

Definitely a tough read yet. Conner's a pretty decent study of faces, but it's gonna take more than the first meeting for him to start sussing out those microexpessions. At the very least, he isn't getting a reprimand right now — that's something.

No guarantees that means Viktor's an ally or a genuinely good person, he's been baited and switched one too many times to assume. A little healthy skepticism's gonna linger for a while.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, the Auto-Doc thing's really tempting my inner twelve-year-old. Robot Wars was a hell of a show," All of that said in an offhand, slightly dry roll. Probably hard to tell whether or not he's joking. "But maybe we put a hold on that for the moment and jump to how exactly this is meant to go. Do me a favor, mate, and tell me what you expect from me, honestly. Really. Not just what they've got written down in the company-mandated pamphlets."

LAND had a great byline. Learning and National Defense, out there furthering humanity in a dual-pronged approach. Research ways to improve mankind, use what they learned to shut down threats before they got to be a problem. Sounds fantastic. All the HR memos were real sellers. Took him a while to figure out what was between the lines. What his actual job was, as opposed to what they told him it was.

You could say he's a fan of skipping pretense.

If only there were company-mandated materials to read. The lack of clearly delineated parameters is nigh unto a personal attack, in Viktor's opinion. Anything worth doing requires a certain amount of spontaneity, but how can any of them expect to accomplish anything material without knowing the criteria for success? Intuition alone? Just guessing? It's absurd.

He has his crutch standing next to his seat like some kind of wizard staff. The glove holding it shifts its grip, briefly squeezes, settles. All right, then, the bullshit-free version:

"Honestly?" His bony shoulders barely nudge a shrug into existence. "At this stage, not much. We spend some time together, in whatever context seems fitting. We get along, or we don't. Ideally, the both of us learn something in the process. After thirty days, another warden is assigned to you." Such a dry summary could easily come off as indifferent, but his attention never dulls, his yellow eyes remain keen. "What anyone might come to expect from you depends on how you choose to conduct yourself."

They'd be on the same page about that. No goals, no outlines, no clear instructions — he may be an artist in his spare time, but he still needs some sort of structure. If history is any indicator, he tends to fall apart if he doesn't have something like that.

All the same, he seems to relax minutely at Viktor's answer. It seems honest, no bullshit. Lenient, where the potential for power to go to somebody's head is pretty high. Stanford Prison Experiment. Might not be the outlined steps he'd have liked, but at least he isn't shackled to a parole officer.

Something he won't say, but that Viktor will come to learn — the way he conducts himself is more or less agreeable, if a bit standoffish at first. Chalk it up to learned wariness he didn't really have before LAND. He's a steady presence, not prone to causing trouble or stirring shit. No real ego to speak of, and a temper that's only set off if you push buttons that can be a bit hard to find.

"Alright. Fine." Easy enough. He leans back in his chair, loosely crossing his arms. "Is this the part where we play one of those get to know you games? Question For A Question? Or am I meant to give you a confessional right off?"

Conner relaxes; Viktor does not: similar social reflexes, manifesting distinctly. Viktor's resting face does much of the work for him in that regard. He's pretty sure the thing about the questions game was a joke—please let it be a joke—but since they seem to be going for honesty,

"I would sooner visit the airlock."

Just a little wild escalation over lunch. (He's kidding. Probably.) Speaking of which, he casts a glance sideways to indicate the mess hall's octagonal vending array.

"If you're about to confess hunger, feel free to make use of the AUTOMAT™." How can a human being possibly indicate all-caps without raising his voice? Who knows, but he manages it. "We can save the revelatory discussions for later," preferably never, but he's committed to this role now, so he can just suck it up, "unless there's something you're especially impatient to share."

I would sooner visit the airlock.

Well, that earns the first proper smile from him — asymmetrical, a flash of teeth on one side, obviously pleased. Not necessarily over getting out of the questions themselves (though that's a sizable chunk of the delight), but over the phrasing.

"Just one thing," he says seriously, untangling his arms from his chest to lean forward and rest them on the table again. Prepare for this utterly serious delve into his backstory —

Just kidding.

"Can you get me a notebook, mate? Pen, pencil, marker, charcoal, doesn't matter. Just something. I'll owe you one."

That, the authentic smile, is roughly as satisfying as striking out some minor task on a to-do list, which may not sound like much, but it isn't nothing. Just something to appreciate privately. Viktor used to be unintentionally funny more often than on purpose; now that he talks a little less like he just climbed out of a textbook (which he basically did), that ratio has shifted measurably.

It's about to shift toward ugh, why under the threat of earnest exposition—luckily, that's a fake-out. He sighs after it.

"Trust me, if we had any such thing aboard, I would be carrying one myself. But," in the most minor case of hand-talking, one finger lifts from his crutch, "there may be an opportunity to acquire some paper next time we make landfall. The last port had a marketplace I would have liked to see, but, eh... I missed it, unfortunately."

And now he has leftover 'currency', i.e. a handful of weird little Monopoly tokens, that he has no idea what to do with. (He's keeping the little car for sure. The rest: eh.)

"You might also try your luck at the Commissary, but it appears to have a sense of humour, so, be prepared for surprises."

Edited (small picture very important) 2022-04-09 03:46 (UTC)

So much for the smile; the bad news kills it with a small sigh. Figures they wouldn't have bloody pen and paper in space. Everyone's too advanced for the classics, apparently. Drawing on next gen hologram can't be the same level of satisfying.

"Sounds like I'm better off not chancing it," he muses. A beat, and then a more realistically, "Also, I haven't got any money. Probably... the bigger factor... in that decision, really."

Since that's off the table, though-

"Well, listen, I can't just sit around doing nothing. If you've got any welding gear, I can... patch holes in the walls, whatever."

Viktor's about to explain the ticket system—rather, mention the tickets and then admit he can't explain them, since their arrival is pretty much inexplicable, thus far presenting no identifiable pattern—but then, Conner speaks a magic word. His mien changes instantly, as though lit by a spark from within.

"Ah, yes, it was noted in your file that you're a welder by trade. I'd be interested in hearing more about that—the independent work, as well. Your personal projects lean more creative, as I understand it."

Feed him, he's starving.

Well that's an interesting change. Never in his life has he seen anyone get excited when he tells them what he does for a living these days. Tends, if anything, to get an ah, interesting and then a prompt change of subject. Definitely filing this bit away for future questions.

"Welder fabricator," he offers, in case that means anything. "Large equipment, mainly, but I've done other stuff. Somebody tells me what they need, I cut it and put it together. Design it even, sometimes, but usually they've already got something drafted up when they bring me in."

He scratches awkwardly at the stubble on his cheek when he ventures into the second part. Self-conscious about it still, sue him. "The creative thing's more just a... side hobby. Art. Sold a few pieces, but it's nothing to write home about."

"I disagree—but we'll come back to that."

Unless he forgets, which is entirely possible after welder fabricator. What that means is a change in the angle of his head, the sense of some minor automatic engagement occurring inside—ah, interesting in genuine form, turning over.

The shape of his mouth hints at a smile without actually committing to it.

"So... what you're saying, essentially, is that you happen to be well versed in navigating the outlandish demands of engineers."

Is this an industrial inside joke?
An offer of condolence?
A trap?

Yes.

Yep, there it is. Something a little knowing passes across his face. Not that he's an expert in the ins and outs of the field exactly, but from what he knows, there's only really a handful of people that make fun of engineers: welders, physicists, and other engineers.

"Yep," agreeably, nary the faintest consolation in the realm of they're not that outlandish. He's fielded some bloody weird requests. "I take it you're one of 'em, then?"

This is good. Promising. This bloke being his warden, it might mean he actually gets to do something with his time that isn't just... getting lost in his own head. Thinking too much. Losing his damn mind.

Good answer, says the gleam in his yellow eye.

"Primarily."

One of two, specifically, but the other one needn't enter this conversation. In fact, one hopes he can sense he's assertively not being discussed, wherever he is.

"I wish I could say this means there's a workshop waiting for you, but the best I've been able to manage so far is unlocking repair kits for specific items. This ship, being the technological marvel that it is, is almost entirely automated—repairs included."

Viktor is approximately one restless urge away from prying a panel off the wall and climbing inside. Don't think he won't.

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ᴏᴍ ɴᴏᴍ ɴᴏᴍ

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