V. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
grindset) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
returnjourneylogs2022-03-19 10:01 pm
grindset) wrote in returnjourneylogs2022-03-19 10:01 pm
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:
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
no subject
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.
no subject
"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.
no subject
"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.