an assortment

[grindset]

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

Comments

[grindset]

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."

[defensemechanisms]

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."

[grindset]

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."

[defensemechanisms]

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."

[grindset]

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.

[defensemechanisms]

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."

[grindset]

"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.

[defensemechanisms]

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.

[grindset]

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.