exsiliumlogs | [OPEN] Standing on the cliff face, highest fall you'll ever grace

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[OPEN] Standing on the cliff face, highest fall you'll ever grace

Date & Time: various; post zombie madness
Location: Places
Characters: Chloe Frazer and YOU-- or at least we all hope it's you in there
Summary: last boarding call for the S.S. Disaster of the Century (viva la revolution)
Warnings: copious amounts of Robin Hooditis

A: Cafeteria

[She doesn't much care for the idea of borrowing anything when supplies are scarce. Doesn't like the thought that this is-- for the moment-- all they've got left. But plans are plans, and change is necessary, and nothing in this world (or any other for that matter) comes without a cost. If they mean to hole themselves up long enough for negotiations to leave them all in a better state than the one they're in right now, then spare packets of food and water are more necessity than nicety.

Still, doesn't make the pill go down any easier; Chloe spends more time hovering near the kitchens than what's appropriate for anyone that isn't Gordon Ramsay. Might be worth looking into, honestly.]

B: Corridors; farther away from housing

[And the damage isn't as noticeable as it ought to be, (years of abandonment means the base already looks a half step away from collapsing like a house of cards) but considering she'd rather not experience what it's like getting sucked out into the endless vacuum that is our known universe any time soon, Chloe's quick to lend a hand wherever it's needed amongst the more battle scarred sections of the station. Sure, she's exhausted-- looks the part, sporting a good layer of salt and dust that's been there since the start of the undead fiasco-- but the sooner they get the base back into (relatively) good shape, the sooner she'll feel secure enough to sleep like a proper human being.

If it takes hammering at a few panels for that to be a reality, count her in.]

C: Housing

[Supplies seen to for the moment, holes patched up and wiring duct taped together, Chloe's just about done. The past week hasn't been kind, the past year hasn't stopped digging in under her skin: she's spent. Walks like one of the staggering dead they'd just spent all they've got in them to kill off, on a mission to just get through that last bloody section of the station to hibernate so hard they'll have to hire a prince to wake her up.

So it's safe to say she's not really watching where she's going, arms full up with pilfered foodstuffs and scrap-- and it's also safe to say she won't appreciate any incoming distractions. Or collisions.]

---

[ooc: Use whatever format you like-- and if none of these prompts suit you, feel free to create one of your own! Chloe's out and about and prone to dozing off in a few inappropriate spots for impromptu naps; it's a terrible habit someone should do something about it.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ He's used to the press of crowds, but she has no reason to invade his space. He slips just as fluidly to one side, raising a brow. ]

I wanted to see how it worked first, to avoid ruining my food. There is little enough for everyone as it is. Open it then, if you are familiar with it.

[ Grudgingly he takes out some sort of flaky bread claiming to have meat and cheese inside. It looks stone cold. ]

[Definitely not joking. No one in their right mind would carry that sad, frozen meal about unless they absolutely had no idea how to heat it. Chloe offers up a somewhat sympathetic grin at the sight (whether he cares for it or not) and tugs the food from his hand, locking it inside the belly of the microwave a second later. ]

First things first: two minutes is your rule of thumb. If it's not hot in two minutes, go in for two more-- and for the love of god don't go skipping the trial and error bit and setting it ok something like fifteen minutes unless you prefer your meals as burned out husks.

[ He usually has more important things on his mind than cold food, and he isn't inclined to complain too long. But even when he traveled on horseback from the mountains down to, say, Damascus, he could get a fire going and have something warm. Part of what frustrates him (though he tries not to show it) is that something that seems so simple to others would baffle him.

At least she has the charity to show him how. ]

So the numbers count minutes. And... [ He gestures to the "START" button. ] I assume this is what turns on the light?

[ Had they captured the light of the sun in this box, to cook food at alarming rates? Or was there a fire he could not see? ]

Is there fire in this box? And do we need anything else, like a metal pan or tongs?

[Fire in the-- oh Altair, no, don't give her ideas.

She goes to dig a few knuckles into the start button. Stops. Grins wide at her own reflection.

Too late.]

Yeah, actually. We do. The whole thing works way better when you put your utensils in with it.

[ He doesn't notice her grin, perhaps because he's already going to retrieve some utensils. He's very efficient and likes to get things done quickly, after all. ]

Why didn't you tell me before... Here.

[ He places a couple forks next to it, closes the door, and presses START. He stands back patiently. ]

...It is sparking a little more than a fire should.

Obviously. [Chloe steps back. Way back. Folds her arms across the front of her chest as the microwave sizzles and spits out increasingly livid sparks.] How else do you get a fire started?

[ It takes a particularly vicious light show to let him know he's been had. To his credit, he bravely hammers the button marked STOP before throwing her a furious look. By now, there is smoke and a terrible smell spreading through the room. ]

I was looking to learn something new, not needlessly waste resources!

[ He glances back at the microwave with an almost sympathetic wince. He didn't think he could feel bad for a kitchen appliance. ]

Oh, you're all right. [ Casual as anything, as if it doesn't occur to her that he might be more concerned for the appliance itself. ] Here. [Chloe tosses him a spare MRE packet from the outbreak; the only one left in her pockets.] Next time you aim to cook something stick to everything I've told you aside from putting in your silverware, yeah?

Do you think I would trust your advice after that?

[ But he slips the food she tosses him into one of the pouches at his belt anyway, rolling his eyes. At least it's packaged, thus presumably free of poison.]

And do you make a habit of breaking things around here, when you know supplies are hard to come by? The Initiative fools do a fine job of muddling everyone's lives without your help.

[ He scowls at the microwave. ]

Oh c'mon, mate, it was a practical joke. Don't you have those?

[There's nothing harsh in her voice when she asks, accusations aside. She did, after all, ruin one of a few good microwaves.] Besides, I'll patch it up later. No permanent harm done. Cross my heart.

[ He isn't going to deny he hasn't tested his boundaries and his Master's patience as a child. But those days seem so far away now. He shakes his head. ]

This isn't exactly the time for foolishness.

[ Perhaps on another day, another week, he might not be such a stiff. But the violence of the zombie outbreak had only accentuated his desire to escape. Who the hell wants to be stuck on the moon with strangers when dangerous creatures overrun it? ]

They should be thankful some of the people they've kidnapped know how to repair these. The next time I see one smoking, I'll know who to blame.

[ There is no mention of ratting her out. In fact, despite his will, one corner of his scarred mouth twitches upward. ]

[She catches it, barely. Returns the favor with interest as she stuffs her fingers down in her pockets.] Might help if you had a name to go along with this wonderful memory.

Chloe. Chloe Frazer.

Altaïr.

[ He doesn't give his name easily, but he's trapped on a base with only a few hundred people. Anonymity is difficult here, and refusing to give it would mark him more distinctly. He wonders if any of the people here shared his given name... Probably not. At least there is no point in giving his family name. It simply means "son of none." ]

You say you can fix this box. Do you do anything else besides break things and fix them?

On occasion. When the pay's good enough. [there's one slow, thoughtful little beat before she adds, eyes set off on the doorway that leads outside.]--or when need trumps just about everything else on the table.

I think any skills you have would better serve finding a way home than tricking the unwitting... We were brought against our will, and we cannot remain here forever.

[ He scowls out the window. It was the way in which the Initiative went about things that rubbed Altaïr the wrong way. He had responsibilities back home that needed taking care of. ]

I've been here a year, love. Believe me, there's nothing I haven't tried. [Or will try. Still, the usual humor's not really in her voice when she says it: this is a subject worth being serious about.]

[ He stares at her incredulously. That he's showing this much surprise in front of a stranger is something. ]

They cannot keep us this long!

[ Well, clearly they have. He stows his useless words. ]

I intend to leave, and I will do what I must. They can find someone else; they have the means.

Oi, oi, easy darling. Easy. [She's quick to lift her hands in a rushed attempt to comfort someone that likely doesn't need it. Old habits left over from dealing with grown men that usually do.] There might be another way to go about this before you wind up getting yourself killed.

I do not fear death.

[ Er. That statement and its icy tone probably isn't going to assuage her fears. ]

...I do not draw my blade so readily, like a fool. You've been here a long time, you know of their workings better than I do. If you think the Initiative will listen to sense, you may help me put together a convincing argument.

Sense might be a little gracious, but yeah, actually. Before the numbers swap back in their favor, there are more of us than there are of them.

And a few of us are planning to take advantage of that fact.

...What's this about outnumbering them? I thought you didn't want me to get myself killed? Even if most of the people in this fortress do disagree with them, I doubt they'll put it to vote.

[ He scoffs at the last word. The Initiative take people hostage; he doubts they subscribe to democracy. ]

But I am listening.

Well we're not planning on jumping them while they're on the toilet. Low staff means low security for the transporter-- you know, the machine that brought you here; the only way for the Initiative to get back to full power-- and if we time it right, slipping in to take control of it? Easy as anything.

From there on out it's just a matter of holding onto it till they agree to let transports have a say in what goes on around here.

[ As the topic of conversation turns clearly conspiratorial, his eyes dart about for eavesdroppers. Luckily, they're alone, and he's had the foresight not to open the microwave. The smell alone would have caught everyone's attention. ]

That would require some heavy planning. Scouts to gather information; those skilled in stealth to slip in; fighters to hold that room for as long as negotiations take...

[ He's familiar with using intimidation, and threatening the Initiative's valuable piece of equipment may work... "may" being the key word. ]

I think you'll need more than 'a few' men.

Stealth is what I do best, darling. Trust me on that. As for the rest...[She lifts her eyebrows, shrugs with her hands still in her pockets in a gesture that roughly translates to having it all tucked under her belt already.] We won't need half as much as you might think.

But it'd be good to have you along for the ride when we do.

Our success is the best shot you have at getting home, after all.

[OPEN] Standing on the cliff face, highest fall you'll ever grace

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Altair oh my god :')

cold space hot pockets, DELICIOUS

pretend my phone didn't give me a typo up there!

shh typo what typo i see nothing

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