#1

[rank1]

Passengers: Travis Touchdown and youuuu
Location: Various, but initially the loading bay.
Date: Jan 24th
Summary: Arrival.
Warnings: we shall seeeee




Travis arrives in a cool fury.

Who can blame him, really? He'd come to on the transport ship as it pulled into the loading bay, and while the various systems that be went through various protocols and whatever-the-fucks that happened with the arrival of a new inmate, he'd watched the inmate orientation with a steadily ticking frustration. What, a fucking tutorial video? Were they going to explain how to move, too? Of course he knows what he did –– he was fucking there. He was already arrested for it. He was released. Dressing it up like a video game doesn't make it any more tedious to dredge up.

What a pain in the ass.

He strolls off the transport. He walks like he's ready to run, shoulders set in a hard line, near vibrating with anticipation. He is glad that he is wearing a more or less fresh change of clothes after the last marathon –– in this case, ratty jeans and a t-shirt that say... well, whatever you interpret this to be communicating. You tell me. The important part is that he looks cool, even unarmed.

"Every prison level has some bullshit bit where you have to get your gear back," he says as he walks out of the loading bay. "Gotta find a guard, maybe fight a miniboss..." He flexes as he goes, lacing his fingers and stretching his hands out in front of him until his wrists pop. He rolls his neck dramatically, sighs when it cracks. "Unless it's a goddamn stealth mission... that shit is boring as hell."

Travis dips into a low lunge suddenly, first one leg, then the other. A grimace slides across his face. Oof. It gets harder and harder to let his gaming jags run through to four A.M. every year.

"But if it's a fight... fuck, I better not be out of shape."

Doing this without a beam katana is going to fucking suck.

Comments

[rank1]

Travis stops right in front of William, and the question wipes the smile from his face.

"Sure do! They were my fights," Travis replies, with a thread of pride, but it doesn't quite reach his expression –– steely, dispassionate. He jerks a thumb towards the robot as it careens off. "If you want to hear their side, I can send you to hell with them. I bet their stories would be great."

[omniavincit]

“Yeah,” William says, almost to himself. His mouth softening into a smile. It holds undeniable appeal—not death, but the idea of descending into the underworld to be regaled by the forgotten dead. If only this place ran that way.

He doesn't compose himself—his expression is searching, insistent. Prepared to turn to disappointment. He meets Travis' eyes, takes a breath, and says, “If you kill me, you will definitely be responsible.”

Yes or no.

[rank1]

Jeez, what's with this guy? He's got weird vibes, all that mystery packed behind such a simple phrase. Like that infamous like idiots online like to dunk on, people die if they are killed. The intricacies of the Japanese language are lost on jackasses with no respect for Nasu Kinoko watching the inferior English dub, when it was always a rumination on the implications of immortality. Not every anime is surface-level bullshit like F**ry T**l.

... Yeah. If he fights this guy right now, and kills him, he will be responsible! It's got meaning. Something deeper!

Travis nods, geared up.

"Yeah. Yeah! You want a fight, right now?" Travis asks. "'Cause I'm not gonna waste my time if you're not going to make it good."

[omniavincit]

For a second reality itself seems to flicker—the polished floors, the distant rumors of asteroids colliding with the ship's shields. He can't tell if the man he stands toe-to-toe with is deathly serious or an elaborate joke. But he believes the flex of his fingers, the way he moves.

In his heart of hearts, he wants to fight. Fight and lose. Fight and die, maybe. It's been a whole year without bloodshed. He doesn't know what it is—self-loathing, nostalgia. A yearning for the kind of intimacy that only comes with violence.

(Something darker, and worse.)

But this isn't about him. “It's all up to you,” he says. Simple.

All you do is make choices.

[rank1]

"Cryptic," Travis replies, with a little twist of intrigue to his voice.

He's imagining the story here: space janitor thought life amongst the stars would be interesting, but it's just the same old floors to mop, the same daily grind. Surrounded by people who have done insane enough shit with their lives to wind up here, desperate for something to get the blood pumping. Getting wasted by one of them would be something to talk about. Excitement to die for. That'd be worth it, right? Go out on a high note, put up a fight for once??

Fuck, that'd be cool. An honour. There's already a little bounce to the way he stands, a readiness to spring, even this close.

But it's just a guess. It's not real. It's gotta be real.

"But just so one thing's clear," he says, real heat on his voice. "I'm not some random murdering fuckhead, alright? So with me, you're not just giving up your life, you're betting it. If you don't put everything in this, if I get any impression that you're going to pussy out on killing me, I'm done. Got that?"

[omniavincit]

“No,” he says, expression faltering into sympathy. The corners of his mouth softening. He looks momentarily younger, disarmed—as though he's stepped blinking from a darkened theater into the harsh sun. “Not really. If I die it's because that's what you wanted.”

Not cryptic: to the point.

William lifts his chin. He remembers how Yunlan had died trying to save Norton, how easily he'd dismissed it—couldn't he go home? Wasn't that the least he could do, enduring a few seconds of excruciating pain? And now—he searches every corner of his own intentions for anything false or hollow.

“But I think you're right. I think that's what I came here to do—put everything on the line. If you want that to mean dying, sure. All right. But I can give you more.”

[rank1]

The longer this goes on, the more he craves the first blow. It’s weird thinking about killing with his bare hands, but that’s more intimate, right? Flesh on flesh. Death closes in. He feels like a tiger, skin and bones. Desperate for a taste. Only the need to look cool keeps him from vibrating out of his skin.

But how long has it been since he had a conversation with someone ready to face death with him? Taken time to look at someone’s face and watch them ease into the violence coming to them both? Too long. He’s been away too long.

“Alright,” he repeats. “You got me curious. What’s worth more than a fight to the death?”

Wanting revenge was so different.