sixthiterationlogs | I wanted to stay home but I went running running running running from the troubles

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I wanted to stay home but I went running running running running from the troubles

WHO: Valkyrie
WHERE: The Bunker, around the village
WHEN: End of November
OPEN TO: Bruce Banner (Bunker), OTA (Village)
WARNINGS: Possible mentions of alcohol abuse, past implied slavery, and PTSD.

Arrival in the Bunker

To wake with swirling, swimming vision, everything distorted in front of her, is nothing new. Many are the nights where the previous night's inebriation simply bleeds over into the morning, one day into another. But the tube? The tube's a decidedly new development.

Groggily she draws a hand up to push at the glass. Then knock against it a few times, the noise enough to discourage further taps with a groan and a squint. Okay, no, hangover is not liking that at all. Though this didn't feel quite like the average hangover.

Still might puke, though.

There's a shape moving past the glass that she can't quite make out, and she tries to lean forward enough to see who it is. One of the Grandmaster's goons? A gladiator? Is this the new pit? She'd worked her way out of that mess already, or so she'd thought. Or was this some scavenger crew who thought to sell her out?

"Hey!" And that initial shout reminds her with a grimace that yes, still in glass tube. Still only really hurting her own ears here. Ow...

Arrival in the Village

Freed of the tube, she's free to marvel at how much...really hasn't changed at all. She's stuck here, instead of there, with less food and booze but more trees and greenery, and fewer tasers or holding cells. Maybe they like their 'prisoners with jobs' free-range, here.

Still, for a new arrival, she doesn't look that fussed by the change of scenery. Anyone look at her could tell she was new, a well-muscled but slight woman with messy dark hair bound back out of her face. Her expression? Says she's already about a thousand percent done with the shake-up and ready to move on. This gaping uncertainty under her feet is a little less than ideal, but she's handled herself in worse.

Clad in telltale red scrubs and carrying her complimentary pack on her shoulder, she's making her rounds, from building to building. Taking in the landscape, such as it is. There's a vague tally to keep, places to sleep, people she'd be expected to work with to do...whatever needed doing. Because of course they're going to ask her to do things, that's not a question, really.

So the sooner she finds out what she needs to do to get secure and get out of her own mind? The happier she'll be.

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She can see Sam twitch a little, but you don't go asking a girl what her damage is on the first date. So, she very helpfully pretends not to notice it at all, allowing her head to fall slightly to one side as that prevalent warmth from the drink creeps upwards.

"Another trash heap with no hope of escape. Kind of like this place, but less green, and more...trash." Her nose wrinkles one hand lifts, waving dismissively. "Except apparently I escaped that, and wound up somewhere else where there's supposedly no escape, so."

Of course, Sakaar wasn't where she was from, either. Just where she'd been last. Eh. Details.

There was, literally, no response for that. So Sam fell back on her favorite standby. "Well," she said, "that blows."

While she was an artist with a beaker or with a brush, Sam's language skills tended to fail to impress. But she figured the sentiment was there. And Scrapper--she'd come up with some kind of nickname for her later...Scrappy? Scrappy Doo?--didn't seem like the weepy type, anyway.

Worked for her.

"I'm from Los Angeles," she said with a shrug, turning down the heat on her mash, on the stove. "Which is kind of like a trash heap without an escape. Except we had pay-per-view."

"Looks like you've worked out the essentials, though," she remarks with a cock of her head and a pointed finger towards the still. "How long'd it take you to set that up?"

Thank the stars someone had had the ingenuity to already. If she'd had to try and wrestle one together herself, the results would not have been pretty. An engineer she wasn't, much more adapt at breaking things than putting them back together.

In all sense of the phrase.

Sam glanced over at the still. The thing was an ugly piece of shit, but she couldn't help feeling a little proud of herself. She wasn't much of a chemist. She'd only dabbled a little in college, and again with the Ordo. But all things considered, it had turned out pretty fucking amazing.

If she said so herself.

"About a month," she said. "Took a little longer to nail down the proportions. I'm thinking about experimenting with flavors, at some point. But finding natural flavorings is fucking impossible this time of year."

Flavorings? She supposes someone's got to want to drink it for the taste. She's personally not of a mind to care, but you know, it's nice that Sam wants to try. Sam seems nice, which normally sets off alarm bells in her head. No one's nice without reason for it.

It's not like she won't figure it out, hanging around her as long as she intends to.

"Who taught you? Don't suppose you come from a family of brewers." There's a quirk of her lips that says she's joking, she's not expecting a life story here. Just chatting while the buzz settles into her bones.

She let out a soft snort. In a way--a very sick, twisted way--she was from a family of brewers. Her biological parents liked to cook up all different kinds of monsters, twisting and extracting DNA and body parts, leaving a lot of people dead in the wake of it all.

Not something she cared to own up to, of course. But the irony was lovely.

"No," she said, hopping up onto one of the counters, crossing her ankles. "I'm a scientist." A pause. "Was a scientist, anyway. Biologist. Specialty in genetics and heredity. But chemistry isn't that hard. I just figured it out." She shrugged. "There's no shortage of time on your hands, around here."

"Yeah, I bet. Surviving gets pretty dull after a while."

It's the mundane things that keep you living, after all. Or at least breathing. There's nothing glorious about gathering food or supplies, scraping together what kind of a life you can manage out of the trash. Or the wilderness, she supposes.

"What d'you get for distilling?" And she nods towards the contraption. If she's making the booze? The least she can do is help her maintaining her supply. Win-win, honestly.

A thin smirk painted itself across Sam's lips. "Mostly good will," she admitted. "I'm fucking unpopular and, as I've been told, both obnoxious and disliked." Admittedly, no one in the clown rodeo had out and out said it. But plenty of people had back home. And Sam didn't think she'd changed all that much. She knew what she was. And she knew just how grating she could be.

Not to mention...

She grimaced a little. "Also, I'm a vampire. So I guess this is a way of proving I'm not some kind of horrible mass murderer. You know? Here to help. Try the booze. Shit like that."

Obnoxious and disliked? The description pulled a smirk onto her own face, though not with any mirth at Sam's current status among the other stranded. No. It was just all too familiar. No one much liked her where she'd come from either.

"Well you're alright where I'm standing. Or, sitting," she corrected, with a gesture at her very comfortable position right where she was. "Everyone's some kind of awful. You're definitely not the worst I've ever met."

"Everyone's some kind of awful," Sam repeated. She played with the words in her mouth, mulling them over before deciding that, yes, she liked them. It was hashtag levels of accurate. And she nodded. "That would make a pretty fucking fantastic tattoo. Or a bumper sticker."

Or needle point. For the irony.

She shrugged. "Well, thanks, at any rate. I mean, for what it's worth, my particular brand of awful relates to both my personality and my diet. But I'm harmless. So there's that."

Hashtags and bumper stickers would mean little to an Asgardian, but she shrugs in agreement. Probably, yeah. Why not?

"Wouldn't matter either way, honestly." Even if she was dangerous -- and she might very well be, and just saying otherwise to take her off guard -- it was doubtful it would make a difference. "Dangerous people need to survive as much as harmless ones."

Which meant a certain amount of cooperation needed to occur, regardless.

This was a woman who'd make a halfway decent Kindred. If such a thing existed, which was way more philosophical than Sam wanted to get at the moment.

"Which are you?" she asked instead, almost in spite of herself, because it seemed like something Han Solo would do. "Harmless or dangerous?"

"Which sort do I seem like to you?" And there's a flash of a grin there before she leans forward, hands clasped in front of her. Oooh, but that buzz was settling in nicely. Now there was an almost playful edge to her stance, eyeing Sam up and down.

"So, what needs to be done in order to keep you in the business of making that?" And the miracle machine in front of her gets a jab of her index finger. Might as well make life a little easier for the one scratching your back, right?

Dangerous. But Sam couldn't say why. Just a feeling. An instinct, like sensing another Kindred's Predator. Heat rising off of the boiling asphalt.

Not that she was entirely wary. That happened when you had little to lose.

She made a vague gesture to the stack of potatoes in the corner. "Raw supplies. Potatoes. Water. Yeast, which is the hardest to maintain. And just keeping the equipment from collapsing. It's not exactly the most shatterproof glass in the multiverse."

Some lessons were hard-learned. And really fucking gross.

"Huh. Got anything you can sturdy it with?"

Not that she's an expert on building anything, but there ought to be some points where it could be reinforced. It'd be a matter of finding and shaping the material to do so, but leave it to the person who built the damn thing to say so one way or another.

She's not here to be the engineer of anything. Breaking things is far more her line of work.

"The tech in this place..." She paused, trying to find the most eloquent way to put it. "...sucks. Sucks balls, in fact. We lack even the most basic means to create synthetic compounds that would be even remotely useful. As it is, glass is pretty rare. I'd say about ninety five percent of what we have is scavenged. There's some chick in town who can reshape it, but that's about it."

She paused. Then held up her wrist. "Except for this shit." She glared at the black device around her arm, like a cuff chaining her to something.

To this place, for all she fucking knew.

"We can't get them off. Can't open them up to see what's inside. They're probably tracking us."

"Probably."

She spares only a momentary glance at the device -- one she has herself on her own wrist, in red, just above a very distinctive tattoo -- before she's turning back to the still. Examining the structure of the thing.

"They're not interested in making life easy for us. So we need to know what's there that we can take for ourselves. They want to pitch in? They will. I'm not waiting for their help on that."

Edited 2018-12-17 20:52 (UTC)

Sam liked the attitude. But it was one she'd seen before. One she would see again. One that would be tempered as the days bled into weeks and those fucking weeks bled into months. Was she still angry?

Yes. Yes, she was fucking angry.

But she was also tired.

And it was harder and harder to ignore the fact that being angry was only making her even more exhausted. Especially when there was no real progress from one month to the next. They were damn hamsters spinning in wheels.

"Well, if we're good at anything, it's stealing shit," Sam mused. "There are a lot of abandoned buildings out there. Especially in the other village. We've been putting that crap to use."

Her posture isn't an angry one, at the moment. It's more curious, perhaps, more so than the apathy of her first arrival. Certainly that would die away over time, and sobriety would play its part in that. But for now, she was comfortable enough to wonder about their circumstances.

When she stopped wondering? That would be when the real trouble began.

"Yeah, I heard. Two villages, right? And the other's got people like us in it, as well?" Or maybe not. She'd only really garnered bits and pieces of information, thus far.

"We found it a few months ago," Sam said with a bit of a shrug. "It was completely abandoned. So some people decided to move in. Some of us decided to stay here. Just a matter of personal opinion. Near as I can tell, the second village was being prepped for when this clown rodeo of an experiment failed. We think we're the sixth try at...whatever the fuck it is they're doing here."

Theories abounded. No hard evidence. The mind could conjure up terrors. Especially Sam's mind. Which made it all the more critical that she take everything with a grain.

Or the whole fucking salt shaker.

"You come up through the fountain or the tubes?"

The sixth try? "What happened to the other five?" she has to ask, as she stands straight and looks in Sam's direction again. But there's a part of her that knows, or thinks she does.

Same thing that happens to all faulty experiments, right? Back out in the trash. Or worse. That should make her afraid of what's to come, shouldn't it? Make her want to fight that much harder to do...whatever they want her to do.

It doesn't. She's past that. If it comes to that, then hopefully she has enough alcohol stockpiled for that day, and someone she can headbutt in the face before meeting the end. She can't bring herself to hope for more than that.

"...tubes. Guy I know from back the way I came found me. At least that's what he says." She squints faintly, eyes crinkling, before waving it off. "In his version of things, we've already met. Don't think he's lying, so."

That was the twenty five million dollar question, wasn't it? What happened to the other five?

Well. Sam's scientific mind had certain suspicions. Back home, she was Experiment 88. And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what had happened to Experiments 1 through 87. Not to mention some of the people involved in them.

Science was cruel by nature. Crueler than nature. What worked stayed. What was defective was gonzo.

Her mouth formed a tight line for a second, before she nodded. "That happens sometimes," she said, because at least the second part of that statement she could address. "Our DNA and memories are drawn from different points in time, but sometimes from the same universe."

Fuckity fuck. Sam hoped she wasn't from That World.

"...who was it?"

Right, that's getting into the science of the situation, and she's got no ground there. So she lets the talk of DNA and memories and such skim right past before picking up on her question, rocking back slightly on her heels and crossing her arms low over her chest.

"Bruce Banner. You know him?"

Skittish sort of guy, clearly too clever by half, but he seemed nice enough. As far as anyone could be expected to be 'nice', given the circumstances.

Sam collapsed back against the counter, half laughing and half groaning. "Shut your ass. You're from That World too?!" She shook her head, covering half of her face with her hand. "I swear, the Overlords love your universe more than any other universe out there. There are like, dozens of you."

She leaned across the counter and grabbed a small notebook, flipping it open to a page of her neat, tidy handwriting.

Written at the top of the page were the words "Same Universe?" followed by a long list of names:

~~Bucky Barnes~~ Fucky Darns
Sexy British Lady
Daniel Rand
Jessica Jones
Tony Stark
~~Dad Jokes~~Clint Arrow
Second-Rate Superhero Guy
Bruce Banner
Mayor Hotdog?
Steve?
~~Va-va-voom~~Natasha

None of the names look familiar, save for that one. So says the blank look as her eyes rake down the list before she shrugs.

"Maybe some people just get out more."

It's not as though she knows the criteria for bringing people over. She doesn't even really know Bruce, other than the fact that he says she does. Eventually. It's not something she's prepared to try and wrap her head around, especially on a head comfortably full of an entire bottle's worth of rotgut.

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