returnjourneylogs | what do you have there? A KNIFE.

( Took a little getting used to it, the weight and shape. Tactical knives? Sure, he's good with those. Swords? Also good with those. Whatever the fuck this thing was? Kind of almost tanto length but not a tanto. He didn't have experience with medium-size blades. It was fine, though. Jay's a quick learner.

Using it so often wasn't actually what he had in mind but there was a surprising lack of people in here who knew how to fucking fight. And he's hungry for something to do; to do something he's actually good at. Even if these things were weird and sneaky, and almost took his head off once.

Jason only gets a glimpse of William as he skids halfway dor one of the hallways. This damn thing really was giving him a run for his money, and he was having fun fucking around with it until it diverted and headed toward the other guy. Which was exactly when that knife came back out. )

[ A long, jagged leg is hooked around each side of the greenhouse's entrance, extending into the hall. The rest of the corpse lies mangled among the greenery and glass, another snapped leg twisted over its head. What passes for its head. There's a hole straight through its eye and William is crouched beside it, shirt spread at his feet.

He's working quickly, head jerking up every few seconds to check the hall. He shouldn't be here at all—he should already be at warden command, priming a replacement for the gun Viktor hasn't finished upgrading—but it's not so far away and this, this is worth the risk.

William takes a segment of the leg in two hands, abruptly snaps and twists in almost a single motion—digging beneath the hard exterior to separate it from the flesh. His hands are fucking filthy. The shirt is arrayed with glittering shards of metallic carapace—some like rounded scales, some slivers that vanish to a point so fine it's almost invisible. One jagged leg segment that might as well be a spear. They dance with color in the right light, except for the streaks of blood.

He hears the thing before he sees it, loses a second or two trying to yank one last piece free. He wraps the scavenged body parts in the shirt. He's upright when the mimic reaches him, has almost set his feet. The mimic leaps for him; he slams the bundle of shirt and metal into its eye, scrambles to the side as its limbs lash blindly. He feels a sharp pain in his leg and stumbles, regains his footing. ]

Run! [ He half-yells, half-gasps as he suddenly places Jason's footfalls as human and realizes he's not alone in the hall. ]

Edited (NOW HE'S SHIRTLESS) 2022-05-31 21:15 (UTC)

( He's skidding, not running--this is an important distinction--down the hallway. It launches its way toward him again but he's learned the weight of this knife quickly. It feels good in his hands. Like it's always been a part of him. Jason's strikes aren't lethal even though they could be--he's taken out a few of these things already, but when it seemed like no one was around... why not get a bit of training in? Quick strikes at the softest parts (so to speak) in between rolls, jumps, and accidental limbo moves. Jason's not untrained and he's not helpless. He's just impulsive and this thing had become desperate.

This is where William came into play. The mimic darted from its one target over to the sliver of skin peeking from behind the greenhouse's threshold in the blink of an eye. He was on the ground at this point and had been just about to launch the damn thing, but--Well, here he was looking like an asshole laying on the ground with his head tipping back and crystal blues peering at Mr. Dude Bro over there. Hollering for him to run or whatever, and to be fair Jason didn't look like much. Not with what he wore, anyway. Baggy red hoodie and shitty worn in jeans. He wasn't an impressive height, either. Nothing special about him 'till his shirt came off but someone else had that covered tonight, apparently.

Jason flips up to his feet with ease, turns on a heel, and-- ) Brutal ( He yells, and it comes with a smile as he does exactly not the thing William shouted for him to do unless you counted running toward the problem as obedience. William didn't specify which way Jason should run, after all, so... ) But no can do, gramps. ( He runs forward, takes that damn knife and off goes one of those limbs with a grinding crunch. )

Edited 2022-06-01 03:42 (UTC)

[ William clings one-handed to the shirt, even as it threatens to unravel from the force of the blow. Its contents chiming against each other, dissonantly musical. His other hand goes for the utility knife clipped to his waist. It's as though his attention, or time itself, is in ribbons—he notices the mimic's blue spark of an eye roving aimlessly, a tripartite eyelid closing over it. He hears feet pounding the hallway, a boyishly assured voice. Sees dark blood flecking the floor: it's wounded.

A leg whips out in a wide arc. Inches from hooking him and sweeping him into the wall. Then the mimic's balance snaps—no, that's a leg—and as the creature staggers William thrusts his knife into one of the open wounds. Feels the mimic shudder. ] Kill it, kill it. [ He almost chants, voice tight. He leans in, dragging his fucking boxcutter as far down the body as he can, widening the gash until his knife hits carapace.

It dies. Somewhere in there it dies. William's up to his wrists in blood, dried and not. He has to try three times before his knife comes free of the corpse. Only then, staggering back, does he see what's in the kid's hand.

His face changes: he regards it as if it's not a knife but an omen. His jaw sets and his eyes go sharp, flick to the kid's. It's bloody. Of course it's bloody. He lowers his gaze, loses his death grip on the shirt, throws it to the ground. ] Were you torturing it? [ He asks, wiping the utility knife on his pant leg. His voice is loose and hoarse-sounding, his breathing ragged. ]

Edited 2022-06-01 20:56 (UTC)

( He's comin', he's comin'. Patience, old man. Sheesh! For machines(?), these things sure fucking bleed--sputtering out in ribbons as the weird bug-looking thing wobbled discombobulated in its last few moments. Eyes dim and down it collapses. He flicks the blood from the knife, though Jason's not as lathered as this other guy. Have they got a crush on this dude or what?

Those pale blues rise up to the man and he balks at such an accusation--can you even torture things like this? ) The fuck-- No, 'm not that much of an asshole. ( Even if that statement was topped off with a chuckle. He plants his hands on his knees for a second, head cocking to get a good look at it. Completely ignorant of the fact that this guy's got an eye on the blade in his hands. ) More like, sparring. Wasn't near anyone really so I figured might as well see what the fucker can do, right?

( He raises up a moment later--faces William with a short pivot. ) Why, was I interrupting your date? ( A finger flicked to the corpse and him. )

[ It's more talk than he's used to after a fight—like a rhythm he can't pick up, his fingers still cramped from clenching the knife. His leg starting to throb. He hooks the utility knife on his waistband. ] Have you ever been on a date? [ It's not a retort but a puzzled, almost uncomprehending question.

He takes a breath and steps closer to the corpse, favoring his left side. Now that it's dead he can examine its wounds at his leisure, moving between its outstretched limbs to look it over for gashes—gauge their depth. The problem is he knows the knife, the heft of it in his hand and the feel of it carving through flesh. He feels obscurely responsible—the severed leg doesn't help, summons a smoke-shrouded memory of a camp at night. ] Why? Why would you do that? [ The words come a little too fast. His eyes return to the knife. ]

Been punched in the face before. ( Jason seems very amused by this if his pouty-grin doesn't show it clearly enough. ) Close enough, right?--Bro, you need some cardio training.

( Anyway, this dude is... something that Jason isn't sure what to think about, yet. Maybe not quick on the uptake when it came to jokes. That's fine, business it is. There a few beats of silence while he watched the guy hobble over, inspecting. Something tells him he's not about to say something like 'nice work'. His eyes dance over to the bloodstains dripping from a fresh wound. A hand casually waved to it. ) You good?

( Obviously injured, but Jason knew pride well enough that some people want to deal with their shit on their own. That last question though kind of threw him for a loop. His body reeling just enough; his brows furrowing and expression twisting in momentary disbelief. ) Wh--the fuck do you mean why? Dude, these assholes coming around outta nowhere trying to eat people is why. Gotta know what we're dealing with, man. 'Sides, being in this fucking place I'm amazed my whole body hasn't atrophied yet.

[ He must look demented—black blood flecking his chest and caking his hands, sweat beading along his hairline, no way to wipe any of it off—but it's nothing next to the kid's expression as he talks about being smacked in the face. ] Thanks for your feedback. [ William says after an uneasy pause. Scrupulously dry.

The mimic's remaining legs have curled slightly, its body slumping to the floor. William's inspection continues: the kid narrates, more or less, the scores in the creature's flesh, the dings off its armor. Its suffering. ] And? [ He asks, done looking; he pops the utility knife off his belt and, mouth in a grimace, slices away the slashed and bloodied pant leg below his knee. ] What'd you learn?

[ The wound wraps partway around his leg. The bleeding's already slowed—nothing too dire, though a flap of skin flops down. He doesn't exactly invite Jason to look, but he makes no attempt to hide it. ]

No problem. ( It's sharper, irritation clearly seeped into his voice.

Jesus, what a stick in the mud. This guy might as well be besties with Grayson. Guess that comes with the Warden territory. He can't help but feel frustrated by it regardless (or triggered, little to his knowledge). Anger flourishes in his stomach the more assumptions he makes about this whole fucking situation and dude-bro over here looking like he just walked out of a fucking Sam Raimi movie. He really gonna give Jason a hard fucking time when he'd just killed one of these things himself moments later? Typical adults, man. Typical fucking authority figures. )

'Kay, if you're really interested in the analysis, man. ( Fine, he'll give it. And he does just that. Systematically addressing the way the creature moves, how it hunts, what it's weaknesses are, its general speed. Far too detailed to be coming from someone that hasn't had a lot of experience in observing and assessing situations just like this. At least the irritation starts to disappear the more he talks, the more it becomes clear that Jason likes doing this--feels like he can actually be fucking useful. )

Anyway ( it comes a second or two later ) Get that shit checked out, or don't. No idea if they carry something on them. Could be anything, huh?

[ William splits his scrutiny between the kid, what he's saying, and the wound—withdrawing from the corpse he props himself against the wall, busies himself hacking off another strip of pant leg and attempting to smear it with as little insect blood as possible while folding it into a makeshift bandage. Shame this isn't a normal greenhouse with a fucking hose, maybe a watering can.

He absorbs the kid's assessment of the creature attentively while applying a mental asterisk—unsure where the balance lies between this stream of detail and fluent analysis and the river of bullshit that preceded it. The knife heavy in his thoughts. ] Not swollen. [ He says of the cut, his leg—the line of his mouth severe. He fumbles the knot of the improvised bandage—there's barely enough fabric to tie it off—and glances up. ] They get you?

( So Jason's watching this and just sort of wonders if William's aware that they're on a ship with a fucking medbay and not on day five without food and water in the wilderness fighting fucking bears or some shit. Bro. Like at what point is this guy gonna be like, I'm running out of clothing maybe I should get a fucking stitch or two?? Whatever though, not his problem he guesses.

But now that there's some tension--and he's not really sure what that tension is but he sure feels it--Jason's a lot more subdued. Observing. Trying to...figure out what the fuck is really going on, because something's going on. It sure fucking feels like it.

A finger flicks to a slice through his hoodie on the left bicep ) nothing big, just a scratch. No lockjaw yet, but. ( The hand flicks back towards William ) not as bad as you got it.

[ He cranes for a look at the cut, how fresh it is—hard to see in the folds of the hoodie. Studies the kid's face a long moment. Then he returns to the bandage, letting out a quick huff as, this time, he succeeds. ] Didn't look like it slowed you down any. [ He says, pulling the knot tight by the tips of his fingers. ] How's it feel? [ To him there's a camaraderie in this—wiping up the blood together, baring their injuries.

But there are other, pressing considerations: the unknown number of murderous bugs crawling the ship while they linger in the hallway. The fact that they're an elevator ride away from the infirmary and the center axis—containing the storage complex—is likely to be worse. The knife and what it, and this kid's hands, might be capable of.

One arm braced against the wall, William takes a few steps—gradually shifting weight to his injured leg. It's not bad; he swallows back the pain and lets go of the wall, slowly moving toward his shirt, heaped on the floor with bits of metal protruding from it. ]

( He wakes up in a cold sweat; air ripping from his lungs and tremors riveting through him. It's the rapid heartbeat that reminds him he's alive, even if it feels like its about to stop at any second. The urge to get moving, the need to move, coupled with disorientation makes actually getting his feet under him a difficult task. )

Fucking shit. ( Jason mutters under his breath as he clamors around, trying his damndest to be quiet. What with it being who knew what fucking time--late. Banging into something before he finally gets bare feet onto the cold floor. ) God--fucking dammit. ( And the only thing Jason cares about right now is remembering to breathe, putting his face against the cold wall as he remembered that--for whatever reason--cold helped soothe him. Eyes closing... breath slowing... trying to not. See that fucking crowbar.

Finally, after making a damn racket and probably getting a few comments in the process from disgruntled people he woke up, Jason gets his heart rate down enough to slog his way out of the fucking room. He's too tired to really go at it with the usual running up and down the hallways or some other nonsense, but at this rate, Jason figures he might as well go for a stroll and probably pick up a coffee. Still feeling that craving. Like fuck, he could go for a beer right now.

But here he was, sober and awake, dressed in Sunday's best (also known as shitty sweatpants and a baggy hoodie). Wasn't much longer before Jason notices its not just him up and looking not super into being awake. A hand rose with a sloppy wave. )

( Jason was exhausted, having pushed himself probably a little too far with one of a couple sparring partners he's come to make. There may or may not be some purpling around one of his eyes but he wore it well; wasn't upset by it. It was late night and Jason was on the way back to his dorm when someone came shuffling down the hall. Clearly inebriated. Clear enough for him, at least. He knew it well.

For a moment Jason--no way. Eyes squinted. Slowly: ) Claire?

[The slight shuffle in her step is the dead giveaway when Claire usually walks with purpose. Drinking alone is fairly sad, she knows, but it's better than dipping into something in the infirmary. Little victories, and she'd argue she's only a little tipsy. Nothing harmful.

She pauses in her journey down the hall and squints back at Jason.]

Did someone punch you?

[She could be sloshed and it would be the first thing she'd notice.]

It was consensual. ( He says it flat, hiding the humor that wanted to bubble out. Would have laughed if the circumstances were different, but... Claire was drunk, and you know it wasn't really his business. She was an adult. It wasn't his business. She could do whatever she wanted. Hell, Bruce was a functional alcoholic himself anyway. ) You, uh-- you good?

Consensual?

[Claire scoffs. Highly unlikely, but as long as he's not bloodied--either by his own fluids or someone else's--she thinks it's not an emergency.

A hand touches the wall to stop the hallway from tilting this way and that.]

I'm fine. [Not really. She knows, even tipsy, it's obvious.] I... overindulged. My mistake.

Yeah, you know. When a man loves a woman? ( Now he can't help but crack a stupid smile. He's fine, though. It really was just a spar. He egged it on. It's fine. It was deserved.

But that smile stops the moment she finds a wall to help her upright. His feet go on autopilot, immediately darting to her. A hand reached out for her arm. ) Hey, its cool man. Shit happens. Maybe lets get back to your room, huh? We can talk there.

[Ellie is already awake. Her nightmares no longer make her scream and cry-- they did, once, but she trained that out of her. Too dangerous in the dark, in the night, alone and making the dead-man's mark ever westward. Fuck California, fuck Seattle, fuck the thick cover of pine trees that hide the stars and feel like suffocation.]

[But if she could move beyond the blanket of firs, she could look up and study the vast expanse between her sneakers and one hundred twenty-three light years into the umbral dark. The brightness of Merak and Dubhe point toward Polaris, and from there she can find west, find where she is, remember where she's going.]

[But walking into the tunneled hallways of the Peregrine offers no such comfort. She's long given up trying to chart the stars outside their window. Too alien, too far, too inconstant. Instead, she turns her face away and walks through the halls, sometimes walking, sometimes running.]

[There's Jason. She's seen him running at night before, and hidden. Today-- tonight-- she doesn't have the energy.]

Hey.

[Her voice is tired, worn down.]

[What is he even talking about. Claire squints a little more, then decides it's better not to ask. Not right now. Besides, she's distracted when he reaches out to touch her--help her. That's his first instinct.]

You're a good young man, Jason.

[Regardless of the rest.]

This isn't going to be a habit. I promise.

[Mostly because she's been spotted.]

I wouldn't do that to you.

( If you think this hoodie is anything less than a strategic armor to hide everything-- scar, tear, and muscle--beneath it, you'd be wrong. He dressed a little nicer when he lived with Bruce but only a little. Plain shirts, average jeans, kinda broken-in shoes all the same. The money got to his head for a moment in other ways. Mostly drinking. And driving motorcycles down fucking stairs. That's for another time, or not. )

Eh ( he shrugs. ) it didn't get me much. Besides, I'm not 60. ( It's a jab, a friendly one, but there's not a single hint of sarcasm riding on his voice. Just matter of fact. At least, though, they shared that feeling. Fighting was what he knew. Even on the streets, there was a comradarie to sharing notes, laughing over how the fuck they got out of some stupid situation, helping one another clean up.

He steps forward, very purposely putting away that knife. Jason hasn't exactly noticed the eyes on it, but he knows William is a warden and he isn't fucking stupid enough to think the dude wont try and pry it from him eventually. He's just sort of waiting that one out, but until then... and besides, Jay's confident enough in his reflexes that he'll risk approaching and pushing through and into the greenhouse. ) There's at least gotta be some fucking water in here, dude. C'mon. It's a damn greenhouse. Unless you like looking like an 80's action flick.

( Excuse him, he's just sliding through. Blue's watching William real carefully. Try it, old man. ) Which, I dunno. You do you, I guess. Sometimes a little blood looks good on people.

[ Bent stiffly over the shirt and its assortment of fresh holes, William glances up as the kid slips past, his attention placid. He has his doubts about the water—doubts about getting ahold of it without shattering some glass, anyway—but it'll get them out of the hallway, into a room with a single entrance. He bunches the shirt in his fist and flicks a look up and down the corridor before he rights himself and follows, gait still wobbly.

His free hand curls briefly. Whose blood, he thinks but doesn't say. ] I don't really watch movies. [ It's neutral; a touch dry. He keeps himself between Jason and the doorway, the corpse crumpled in it, wondering who the commentary is meant for. All this one-sided banter, like a flurry of punches that don't connect.

He eyes the kid speculatively. ] How many of them did you see around here, this arm of the ship? You think we could clear it?

what do you have there? A KNIFE.

> William

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FOR ELLIE

FOR CLAIRE

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