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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
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.)