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sixthiterationlogs2018-05-10 12:37 pm
3ofswords) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2018-05-10 12:37 pm
Entry tags:
[closed] homeward bound
WHERE: Treetop Village remains, Southwest of 6I
WHEN: May 10 and onward
OPEN TO: Mark Watney
WARNINGS: N/A
Kira wakes up in increments, a funk clinging worse than a hangover as he decides whether or not to open his eyes. He has aches his shit mattress doesn't usually beat so badly into his body, and it's cold. Mornings have been rough, the sun warming up the village closer to noon. Strange dreams, thankfully devoid of badgers. He's withdrawn lately, acclimating to the retun of his powers--well, power, singular. Some days he's laid in bed, waiting for the right sense of timing. Now is when to roll out of bed. Now is the moment to go out. A sense of beats to hit in the day, but no major disasters.
Just the funk. The sense of something on the horizon, some kind of separation, and nothing they can do about it. Back pain isn't a disaster, but he wishes it got specific enough to warn him about sleeping on his side.
Or waking up in a strange room.
Kira rolls over, in his old scrubs and Ty's parka, slapping an arm down over the side of the bed.
No table. No glasses, no dog. The birds chirping are up close and, when he cracks his eyes open, looking down at him from a branch crossing through the roof. Startled upright, he finds the break, but it's--not a break at all. The window to his left simply allows for the branch to continue though. Coughing, he realizes his movements have lifted a cloud of dust from the decrepit bedding, and when he rolls out of the bed, his sock covered feet skid and catch on worn boards. The bed itself is hanging off a frame, a wide hammock woven over posts and slipped from one.
As he looks around, it's obvious the furnished room isn't one of the houses back home. This isn't a morning of waking up in a stranger's bed, a little too much to drink or smoke the night before. He's alone, no footprints in the dust but his own. Some of the furniture looks similar enough to have been dragged out of the village, but the rest is hand-made, vines and branches woven together into baskets, roofing, even sections of floor.
His next step breaks the morning quiet with a crack, and he surges forward as his foot drops through a worn out board. Grabbing at the window, he catches on the sill, an arm flung out into the cool air. He caughs and catches his breath, dragging himself flush with the wall and waiting for the burn of pain along his calf to run warm with blood or fade into simple scratches. He's too busy staring out at the trees, unfamiliar structures built into branches and walkways strung between.
"Alright," he murmurs, sucking in a breath. "Yeah, this might as well be happening." The pain along his leg starts to lessen, and he tests his weight on it as he leans further out of the window, widening the scope of he doesn't fucking know what.
Keep calm, figure it out. He's smarter than this.
No, not this early he isn't. "HELLO," he calls out into the birdsong and breeze. "IS ANYONE OUT THERE?"
WHEN: May 10 and onward
OPEN TO: Mark Watney
WARNINGS: N/A
Kira wakes up in increments, a funk clinging worse than a hangover as he decides whether or not to open his eyes. He has aches his shit mattress doesn't usually beat so badly into his body, and it's cold. Mornings have been rough, the sun warming up the village closer to noon. Strange dreams, thankfully devoid of badgers. He's withdrawn lately, acclimating to the retun of his powers--well, power, singular. Some days he's laid in bed, waiting for the right sense of timing. Now is when to roll out of bed. Now is the moment to go out. A sense of beats to hit in the day, but no major disasters.
Just the funk. The sense of something on the horizon, some kind of separation, and nothing they can do about it. Back pain isn't a disaster, but he wishes it got specific enough to warn him about sleeping on his side.
Or waking up in a strange room.
Kira rolls over, in his old scrubs and Ty's parka, slapping an arm down over the side of the bed.
No table. No glasses, no dog. The birds chirping are up close and, when he cracks his eyes open, looking down at him from a branch crossing through the roof. Startled upright, he finds the break, but it's--not a break at all. The window to his left simply allows for the branch to continue though. Coughing, he realizes his movements have lifted a cloud of dust from the decrepit bedding, and when he rolls out of the bed, his sock covered feet skid and catch on worn boards. The bed itself is hanging off a frame, a wide hammock woven over posts and slipped from one.
As he looks around, it's obvious the furnished room isn't one of the houses back home. This isn't a morning of waking up in a stranger's bed, a little too much to drink or smoke the night before. He's alone, no footprints in the dust but his own. Some of the furniture looks similar enough to have been dragged out of the village, but the rest is hand-made, vines and branches woven together into baskets, roofing, even sections of floor.
His next step breaks the morning quiet with a crack, and he surges forward as his foot drops through a worn out board. Grabbing at the window, he catches on the sill, an arm flung out into the cool air. He caughs and catches his breath, dragging himself flush with the wall and waiting for the burn of pain along his calf to run warm with blood or fade into simple scratches. He's too busy staring out at the trees, unfamiliar structures built into branches and walkways strung between.
"Alright," he murmurs, sucking in a breath. "Yeah, this might as well be happening." The pain along his leg starts to lessen, and he tests his weight on it as he leans further out of the window, widening the scope of he doesn't fucking know what.
Keep calm, figure it out. He's smarter than this.
No, not this early he isn't. "HELLO," he calls out into the birdsong and breeze. "IS ANYONE OUT THERE?"
no subject
"I just want something we can tie to a sturdy branch, just in case the floor gives way," I say as we pick our way into the next building down, no less dusty than the first. It's filled with pollen, and I take a sharp look around to be certain there aren't any puffballs in residence before I let either of us inside.
"You have to wonder about the point of this exercise," I say as I open the lid on a moldy wooden box, the hinges squealing and popping with rust. A bird in a nearby tree answers with a shrill squawk. "Or maybe there's not a point, maybe we're just being screwed with."
Over time, the things done to us all, the tasks set before us, have stopped feeling arbitrary, particularly since we all came out of the fountain the second time. But anything's possible.
no subject
What he himself brings to this situation, he has no idea. Maybe it's more a test for Mark than himself, and he should stop being such an acerbic burden. Maybe he should also stick his arms out and do the chicken dance in a decrepit old tree house; neither is likely.
After breaking through one floor, he moves gingerly around the space--sticking close to walls, areas with furniture that hasn't pushed through on its own weight. "You know, I thought they were using us to get an idea of the place, until they told us where and what to find." And picked the teams, and teleported them out of the village. "Now I lean toward screwed-with."
At another twist of the trunk, similar to the house he woke up in, he runs his hands over an overgrown bed of plants. Gardens in the sky: what were they avoiding, or was it just convenience? His hand runs into something solid, and he wraps fingers around it--pulling a trowel out from the dirt, its rusted edge all the sharper for being eaten away. "This should work," he says, holding it up to one side.
From the hole that it's left, he wraps his other hand around a leafy stalk and uproots the plant from the loosened soil. Some kind of near-white, starchy vegetable. "We've seen these around haven't we?"
no subject
"Let's get some of those and get moving. I really don't want to spend the night up here worrying that something could fall on top of me or from beneath me at any moment."
no subject
"Pull as much of it in as you can, then." He nods at the end hanging closest to Mark, and hauls himself up into the garden to reach the branching sections of the trunk. At some point, this place was strong enough to hold people. At some point, the setup was nice enough to let them drag dirt up here, raise and lower boats. It's impressive, and old--and there's no sign of anyone left to say it did them any good at all.
Careful of his over-sized shoes, he goes with both hands and feet up the bent section of the trunk, getting as close to where the vine breaks through the roof; once Mark's got it pulled taut, he breaks more of the rust off the trowel, getting it cut down. "Definitely sturdier than rope," he comments, all the more careful backing down.
no subject
"Okay," I say, and nod for Kira to follow me back out onto the platform outside. "Now we find the way that looks easiest to get down, a sturdy limb to attach this to, and we should be good to go."