exsiliumlogs | [closed] I'm not in the swing of things

Entry tags:

[closed] I'm not in the swing of things

Date & Time: 12/7, morning
Location: West Wing housing corridor
Characters: Detainees and their assigned babysitters
Summary: The mutineers (+1 Jesse Pinkman) are released and given into the custody of their respective parole officers.
Warning: ~*~FEELINGSSSSSSS~*~ (daddy issues) and probably some foul language because when is that not a thing.
Notes: Catch-all for cr building if you care to use it, though don't feel obligated to tag here if you'd prefer to do things differently. If you haven't been assigned a parole officer or vice versa yet, no worries - back tagging into infinity will probably be a thing. (Additional Note: I personally fully endorse shameless threadjacking fwiw)

[The morning of the seventh, three weeks from the start of the mutiny and nearly as long since the beginning of most of the detainee's stint in police custody, finds them being officially released into the hands of their willing parole officers. There's no real paperwork, no moment where anyone gets their handcuffs taken off. Confiscated personal belongings are returned, but that's about the extent of anything resembling police formality; everything else probably seems strangely abbreviated (and maybe more than a little anticlimactic) for anyone familiar with how this sort of thing usually goes.]

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[ In a totally stunning move, Roslyn is there, returning personal possessions and ensuring that everyone is matched up and knows the terms, knows that they need to be checking in with their parole officer regularly and keeping them informed of their whereabouts.

Aside from that she's staying very quiet, alert and in the background and watching everything in an attempt to make sure that everything goes smoothly.

With any luck, this will be the last of any official dealings she has with them until the parole is lifted entirely. In the meantime, though, she's there to make sure all questions that need answering are answered. ]

[He's been in and out of his cell often enough in the past few weeks - there've been a surprising number of visitors and more than a few trips under guard to use the facilities -, but stretching his legs proper without the promise of going back is something all together different. Hell, this time tomorrow he might very well be leaving the whole sodding planet in his rear view; if that isn't the sort of thing to get spirits up, nothing is. Add that to the fact that Nathan bloody Drake is his police-assigned handler?

So long as no one shanks him in the corridor (because frankly he doesn't think for a second that Nate really provides much in the way of protection - not against the kind of people here) and he doesn't think too hard on the flimsy cardboard cutout that passes for the 'progress' they've made over the last three weeks-- well, things could be worse.

Not that he's gives much more than a passing effort - a cursory glance - to finding Nate in the slightly crowded corridor (sorry buddy). He's got other people on his mind.]

Edited 2013-12-07 22:09 (UTC)

[as soon as Tempest's out, all she wants to both make sure everyone is okay (and yell at at certain someone) and make a break for it, screw the parole bullshit and find somewhere to hide, preferably not on the moon base. Instead, she just leans against the wall near the room she had been held in, arms crossed and hood up. She's anything but relaxed, though; she's more on edge than she's ever been. Who would've thought.

She can feel her knife, now hidden in her sleeve rather than in her boot, resting against her arm; just in case, really, she has no idea what might happen and she'd rather not be caught off-guard. Her eyes track people who pass by, and every so often wander to the people pairing up, but she doesn't move otherwise. She'll wait until most everyone has left to leave herself]

[Too many people. Too many heartbeats. Too much adrenaline. The influx of people makes her skull pound behind her eyes, to the point that she doesn't even exit her room when she hearts the lock click open from the outside.

Now would be perfect. She could run out there and tackle the first sorry sod in her path and snap their neck to make it quick. Nobody would even notice. She could take her time with all the others after the first blood. She wouldn't even need her axes, just her hands, pinching the soft vulnerable pulsing veins between her nails--

Make it stop. The words don't reach her lips, and the elf becomes vaguely aware of a sliver of ichor-blood snaking its way down from her scalp where her own nails dig. It does nothing to slake her thirst, nor the tight squeezing in her chest that threatens to pull a wheeze from her.

It hurts. Everything hurts in a way she hasn't experienced in years. Seviilia takes a slow breath that exhales hard in a cloud of frost to try and clear her mind, though it appears most of her efforts have ended in failure.]

[Jesse's acquired a few gifts while he was in his cell, which he's wrapped together into a bundle he's now hugging against his chest. His posture gives him the look of a nervous schoolboy shielding himself against bullies' punches with his books, except he's worried about getting shanked, not getting punched. It occurred to him about two seconds after the door opened that prison isn't really over - it's just solitary that's over - and now there are hundreds of other pissed off inmates with access to him.

At least he's got Mike as his guard. If that guy could protect Gus against a whole cartel, he won't let anything happen to Jesse here.

Jesse doesn't linger in his cell long once he's given the okay to go. The place is still a mess and he doesn't intend to clean it, either. Jesse himself is a mess, which takes priority. He badly needs a shower and a shave and new clothes and three weeks of good sleep. Once he's out in the hall, he walks briskly with his head down to avoid attention, but he's not so fast that he couldn't be caught.]

[ Max is staying carefully on the outskirts of the whole mess, her belongings back with her now (well, most of them) before she ducked to one side. She'd find Tony eventually, and then they'd duck out and probably head to Earth, or whatever it was Tony was up to, and she'd be free.

There's no relief in her yet, just the quiet caged look of an animal wary of the concept of freedom. It doesn't seem entirely real yet. Two weeks shouldn't have been enough to push her down this badly, but the facts remain. She's not flinching at anything, but it's only because she's staying stone still. ]

[Maria hovers on the edge of this, still immensely suspicious. Especially after Connor disappear—vanished back home, vanished where he can do no more more harm to the Iniative—who knows? She certainly doesn't trust that it's the former.

She's been given the names of those who are to keep an eye on her—Wes Mitchell and Sakura Ogami, both unfamiliar. They're fools or mad if they think she's going to make it easy on them, but she'll play along for now.

Of course, playing along would go smoother if she weren't glaring at everything around her right now.]

[Sonya is - for once - faded mostly into the background. There's no celebration from her here, none of her usual flitting about with a great big grin on her face. There's not really anything to celebrate, and her faking-confidence-to-inspire-confidence contract is long since terminated as far as she's concerned. She considers it her job to be here, to make sure nothing goes wrong, but she doesn't expect anyone will want to talk to her, and she's not really in the chattiest of moods herself.

So she's mostly just fiddling around with her tablet - pretending to text, even though she doesn't really have anyone to text.]

[Well that was... goddamn awkward.

He hadn't signed up for this. Obviously. Any of it. But just when he started to think he had this thing under control, even a little, the universe went and sprang some new goddamn trap on him. Nathan Drake, scrawny, smart mouthed kid that he was showing up nearly Sully's age and out of the blue was more than he counted on. He didn't know this guy. At all. He'd known Nate for a few months now, liked him, taught him what he could and tried to keep him from getting his face blown off. But Nate had known him for, hell, nearly twenty years? Longer than Sully'd ever stuck around anyone before. The knowledge of that was suffocating. It was enough to make him want to turn tail and run, but he hadn't even had the sense to do that.

Well, he'd get it sorted. At least he had some time to avoid the issue, with another goddamn responsibility that he probably shouldn't have signed up for.

He made his way to the center of the room, where his height would make him easy enough to find, trusted Bond would spot him before too long. And that he wouldn't go running off on him because, hell, last thing he needed was a slap on the wrist from the local PD because he couldn't keep double-oh-seven in check.]

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