Kira Nerys (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thenewways) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sixthiterationlogs2016-08-20 09:59 pm
thenewways) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2016-08-20 09:59 pm
Entry tags:
- !mingle,
- - plot: primitive weapons,
- 100: raven reyes,
- asoiaf: margaery tyrell,
- asoiaf: robb stark,
- great library: jess brightwell,
- heathers: veronica sawyer,
- kate kelly: kate kelly,
- losers: cougar alvarez,
- losers: jake jensen,
- martian: mark watney,
- marvel: frank castle,
- marvel: sam wilson,
- ouat: killian jones,
- spn: jo harvelle,
- star trek: kira nerys,
- tvd: kol mikaelson,
- vinland: thorfinn thorsson
keep that fury deep inside you: primitive weapons plot
WHO: Kira Nerys
WHERE: the Inn
WHEN: Saturday,
OPEN TO: All (August Plot, part 2)
WARNINGS: none at present
STATUS: Open
When Nerys heard about the boxes that Jo and Killian Jones had found, she was surprised. When she heard what was in them, that they were all marked with intent, the surprise lessened, and now was turning into sinking overwhelming tunnel vision in her head, her gut. The physical sensation of knowing, knowing that someone had plans for you, and those plans were likely ugly--oh yes, she knows it. Just because it's familiar, though, doesn't make it something she enjoys by any stretch of the imagination.
No, it's the kind of feeling that Nerys had learned at a very young age to transmute into anger. The kind of anger that fed her family, then the kind of anger that blew up Cardassian weapons depots, then the kind of anger that kept her focused on her job and kept her people safe.
She knows that if she's feeling this way, things are just as bad or worse for others. While she hasn't been entirely candid with everyone about her past, though she certainly hasn't lied, she's pretty sure she's seen complexity (let's be frank, darkness) in some of the people she's met, and like fuck did they need a full-scale civil war on their hands here.
It's a good way for them all, in the not-so-long run, to die.
Clearly, they all needed to have a gods damned talk before this boiled over, and as Nerys sees no one else volunteering, she steps up, roaming through the village like an old-fashioned crier. "Hey," she shouts at the people in the field, around the town, using the rather powerful pipes the Prophets had seen fit to give her. "Hey. Meeting at the Inn, fifteen minutes. We need to talk."
She gets to the inn in a few minutes' time, then clambers up onto one of the tables in front of Jo's lists, and sits, cross-legged, to wait. Folks filter in, a few at a time, and Nerys taps her jaw with her fingertips, counting out the seconds (she'd like a chronometer, but that'd be like asking for latinum dust). Once enough time's passed, she clears her throat. It doesn't really do much, so she rolls her eyes, then turns up the volume a little--not aggressive, but enough to catch people's attention. She's accustomed to walking the fine line between too much and too little leadership, because unlike her Starfleet colleagues, she doesn't expect the hierarchy of rank and linked formality of sometimes-grudging respect. Makes it easier to actually talk to people.
"Hey. My name's Nerys, for those of you who I haven't met properly yet. You've probably heard what was found out in the forest," she starts. "I figure we should all sit down and discuss it, because the last thing that's going to be any good for anyone is us starting to distrust each other and get into fights. So...let's hash it out, right?"
If she has to scream the 'this is what they fucking want, they want us to hurt each other, fuck them' message into people's heads, she's willing to do that. Eventually. Hopefully someone else will agree.
WHERE: the Inn
WHEN: Saturday,
OPEN TO: All (August Plot, part 2)
WARNINGS: none at present
STATUS: Open
When Nerys heard about the boxes that Jo and Killian Jones had found, she was surprised. When she heard what was in them, that they were all marked with intent, the surprise lessened, and now was turning into sinking overwhelming tunnel vision in her head, her gut. The physical sensation of knowing, knowing that someone had plans for you, and those plans were likely ugly--oh yes, she knows it. Just because it's familiar, though, doesn't make it something she enjoys by any stretch of the imagination.
No, it's the kind of feeling that Nerys had learned at a very young age to transmute into anger. The kind of anger that fed her family, then the kind of anger that blew up Cardassian weapons depots, then the kind of anger that kept her focused on her job and kept her people safe.
She knows that if she's feeling this way, things are just as bad or worse for others. While she hasn't been entirely candid with everyone about her past, though she certainly hasn't lied, she's pretty sure she's seen complexity (let's be frank, darkness) in some of the people she's met, and like fuck did they need a full-scale civil war on their hands here.
It's a good way for them all, in the not-so-long run, to die.
Clearly, they all needed to have a gods damned talk before this boiled over, and as Nerys sees no one else volunteering, she steps up, roaming through the village like an old-fashioned crier. "Hey," she shouts at the people in the field, around the town, using the rather powerful pipes the Prophets had seen fit to give her. "Hey. Meeting at the Inn, fifteen minutes. We need to talk."
She gets to the inn in a few minutes' time, then clambers up onto one of the tables in front of Jo's lists, and sits, cross-legged, to wait. Folks filter in, a few at a time, and Nerys taps her jaw with her fingertips, counting out the seconds (she'd like a chronometer, but that'd be like asking for latinum dust). Once enough time's passed, she clears her throat. It doesn't really do much, so she rolls her eyes, then turns up the volume a little--not aggressive, but enough to catch people's attention. She's accustomed to walking the fine line between too much and too little leadership, because unlike her Starfleet colleagues, she doesn't expect the hierarchy of rank and linked formality of sometimes-grudging respect. Makes it easier to actually talk to people.
"Hey. My name's Nerys, for those of you who I haven't met properly yet. You've probably heard what was found out in the forest," she starts. "I figure we should all sit down and discuss it, because the last thing that's going to be any good for anyone is us starting to distrust each other and get into fights. So...let's hash it out, right?"
If she has to scream the 'this is what they fucking want, they want us to hurt each other, fuck them' message into people's heads, she's willing to do that. Eventually. Hopefully someone else will agree.
no subject
The clothing colours represent a divide. Raven knows it all too well from her time on the Ark and how some of those old traditions and rules have followed them to Arkadia.
If she's proposing a contingency plan, she supposes it's one to ensure the way they perceive one another isn't based on coloured cloth.
"We give them our own meaning and we stick to it, just like Veronica suggested. But we go a little further than that. Make our own clothes to wear, colour them up, make them like the damn rainbow dropped out of the sky and onto you. We mix and match the clothes. We dye them a colour we choose. You want to stick it to the man in charge? Change it up a little. Maybe I could wear a red shirt instead of grey."
She unfolds her arms then, and lets her fingers of one crawl up the other in a bid to keep any nervous energy she has under control. She's not one for plans when it comes to this sort of strategy. She doesn't do well at the table, too bored with the conversation and too restless to return to tinkering with the bits and pieces at her workstation.
"The colours are meant to divide us. We do what happened at my home — we share, we disregard the rules, we stick together and show that we're not easily torn apart.
"And if that fails, we just parade around naked."
no subject
There are red tablecloths around. She'd ignored them, on purpose.
"Some of us require clothing, Miss Raven," Kate says, but deliberately lightly. Sometimes, the best defence is to laugh. "If only because we start to resemble the red rose a bit more realistically."
Sunburn is, as they say, one of the worst things.
"But I like that idea. Dyeing shouldn't be that hard. Or staining, or paining. We have a river, we have mud. There are berries. It is not even that hard to sew, you can simply unravel things for the thread."
no subject
The colours have to mean something greater than any of them can think of. Dividing them into groups, it has to have a deeper meaning than who looks good in what shade. Raven knows, for one, red's more her style than grey. But planning and agreeing and even stating the obvious may put them on the right track mindset wise.
"If we work together instead of letting this divide us up," she shrugs her shoulders, "maybe that's a better contingency plan than blowing this place to hell. We can form a better one when we have more information." She drops her hand away from her arm, letting her fingers tap against her hip instead. "But … let's stick together. It's not rocket science."
no subject
His time in Lawrence, fighting an Apocalypse, a war not at all his own, facing horrors of magical design with the other displaced residents of the city? It had brought a sense of community in some ways. He'd probably always look out for he and his above all else, it's hard-wired into his brain to operate that way, but the idea made enough sense on the surface.
And it was probably the opposite of what their captors wanted, which only made it all the better.
"Yeah, that much I agree on." Well enough, at least.