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sixthiterationlogs2017-09-23 02:23 pm
3ofswords) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-09-23 02:23 pm
Entry tags:
[closed] i’m feeling electric tonight
WHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: House 42
WHEN: September 23rd
OPEN TO: Mark Watney
WARNINGS: N/A
The longer he stays in the main village, the more it feels like a mistake. He should be running again, he should be fending for himself against the foxes--and if he loses everyone he knows in the meantime, so be it. From the sound of Margaery’s panicked prediction, he has worse things to worry about.
Margaery’s prediction is its own problem.
Kira walks up the porch, leafy plants brushing at his knees. For a moment he tries to focus on that: the itch and slide, the wood with its slight give beneath his feet, the grain against his heels. The world has a texture and a scent, is firm beneath him, is sharp and real around him. Mark and Helen live about as far removed from the village as he does, and this long after the sun goes down, it’s quiet. He isn’t standing saturated in the panic of a gathering, or trying to cook through the hunger of a dozen early risers.
He’s alone enough on the porch that it’s just his own fear, his own exhaustion. In one hand is the folded pages of notes, Mark’s name across the outer edge, and he stoops down to shove it under the door. It’s been more than a month since the ability came back, but for ever brief reprieve, it’s gotten worse, not better. He’s done his best to track the timing in the notes, explain the severity, own up to the fact that Margaery’s new burden might be from a vial with his name on it.
He doesn’t expect Mark to fix it, but someone needs to know. If only to excuse Kira’s desire to hibernate under the dog until it’s all over.
When he gets up, he stumbles enough to catch himself on the door with a dull thud. It doesn’t seem loud enough to warrant a hasty retreat, he takes another moment at the bottom of the steps. There will be quiet and calm at home, but it won’t smell this green, and there’s another walk through occupied houses between him and his bed.
WHERE: House 42
WHEN: September 23rd
OPEN TO: Mark Watney
WARNINGS: N/A
The longer he stays in the main village, the more it feels like a mistake. He should be running again, he should be fending for himself against the foxes--and if he loses everyone he knows in the meantime, so be it. From the sound of Margaery’s panicked prediction, he has worse things to worry about.
Margaery’s prediction is its own problem.
Kira walks up the porch, leafy plants brushing at his knees. For a moment he tries to focus on that: the itch and slide, the wood with its slight give beneath his feet, the grain against his heels. The world has a texture and a scent, is firm beneath him, is sharp and real around him. Mark and Helen live about as far removed from the village as he does, and this long after the sun goes down, it’s quiet. He isn’t standing saturated in the panic of a gathering, or trying to cook through the hunger of a dozen early risers.
He’s alone enough on the porch that it’s just his own fear, his own exhaustion. In one hand is the folded pages of notes, Mark’s name across the outer edge, and he stoops down to shove it under the door. It’s been more than a month since the ability came back, but for ever brief reprieve, it’s gotten worse, not better. He’s done his best to track the timing in the notes, explain the severity, own up to the fact that Margaery’s new burden might be from a vial with his name on it.
He doesn’t expect Mark to fix it, but someone needs to know. If only to excuse Kira’s desire to hibernate under the dog until it’s all over.
When he gets up, he stumbles enough to catch himself on the door with a dull thud. It doesn’t seem loud enough to warrant a hasty retreat, he takes another moment at the bottom of the steps. There will be quiet and calm at home, but it won’t smell this green, and there’s another walk through occupied houses between him and his bed.
no subject
Among the items stocked in the kitchen had been several tea strainers — The old kind that sits on the lip of the cup — and I pass one over before finding our modest stash of joint-worthy paper stacked in a nearby drawer. The kettle starts to whistle.
"Can you create your own token to help you control it?" I ask as I fetch the hot water and settle into an adjacent chair.
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Tipping his head back in the chair, he lets the other comment slide: he really doesn't want more of Mark's theories, even if he's taking notes for the man. "They might not even work if I did. It's magic, and that's up to our keepers. Weed still seems to help." A smile finally draws the edges of his mouth: "Even more if the company is smoking it too."
no subject
"I really need to carve some pipes," I absently add as I dole out the tea and pour the hot water in our cups. "I know we're just using scrap paper here, but it still seems like a waste."
Contrary to my current reputation, I have never actually carved a weed pipe — I was too obsessed with other plants when I was in school to take part in that stoner rite of passage, and surprisingly enough, NASA frowns on recreational drug use by employees.
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Keeping an arm hooked over the back of the chair, he maintains his slouch. When he keeps answering, it's with eyes averted, a distance forming in him around the exhaustion and--fuckery of it all. How is he here, how has it been so long that this is just his life? Bodies on hooks, and Sonny promised not to let them bleed him dry, but Sonny isn't here anymore. "I've got some carving tools I'm not using," he says. "And I know how to make one out of an apple, I guess I could do the same shit with an apple-size hunk of wood."
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Yes, I too actually have some dim knowledge of ancient religions and fantasy fiction.
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Kira's knowledge is equally dim, and his eyes tip into a roll that matches the rest of him. Given the choice to explain it or let Mark keep making bullshit up, he still doesn't launch into specifics. He takes the time to lean forward across the table, busying his hands on the thin papers and little jar of weed.
"The shit I can do with people, my mother does with stuff. We're not the same, even if we can both pick up a pack of cards and tell you not to get on the midnight train next Tuesday. I could probably carve the same symbols into something, I do remember what they look like--but what they're made out of isn't as important as the power of the person making it. I can write them on the tags of my clothes and see what happens, but I can't count on it."
no subject
"It doesn't hurt to try," I say as I settle back in my chair. "If nothing else, it might help you focus just to have one. Help shut out all the noise."
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Even his mother, in full understanding of their gifts, could get his hackles up on the subject.
Using the arm already flung over his chair, he reaches the joint back to catch the paper on one of Helen's candles, and the first hit is just to catch the weed itself. "I feel like I owe you a round of guessing how outer space works," he says thickly, holding the second hit while he offers the joint back to Mark. There is something to the concept of focus, his nerves easing for the familiar push of smoke well before it hits his system. "Is it also a series of tubes in which no one cares about your opinion?"
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Today, though, I probably deserve a break, and I'd been puttering anyway, so fuck it.
I shake my head, and then pause to take a slow drag. "No," I say, voice tight around the smoke before I sigh it back out. "It's a lot of nothingness in which everyone's opinion is irrelevant."
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"You've got that part down, at least," he adds, looking at the tea and weed set on the table, knowing most of what Mark does is to keep their collectively stupid asses alive.
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no subject