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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

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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.)

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