Atrophy

Beyond the Storms

Okay, apologies for the lack of OOC chatter. I'm gonna get my read on in the IC and then should have a post up in a day or two, depending on how irresponsible I end up being.

Carvings of the Galaxy

Sorry for the radio silence, ya'll. I should be able to get a solo post up by Thursday at the latest. Of course, if anybody wants to do a collab then feel free to give me a shout.

Beyond the Storms

Such a bummer our new guy already got KIA; whelp, best we all start hoofing it back to the boat and fast before it eats the rest of us.

_{I mean, Operation: Rescue Magician is a go.}

Carvings of the Galaxy

Owen and Tahlia point at each other, neither wanting to take responsibility.

@beyond visionsEcho's planted some ideas in Owen's head, but he's still a bit reticent about there even being a need for a leader. Now, if nobody were to speak up then he would probably, begrudgingly, act as their representative, but he'd quickly back down if Tahlia, or anyone else, said something.

Actually, I kind of like the idea of Owen and Tahlia speaking up at the same time and then going from there. @TheMadAsshatterWanna do a collab for their response to Pseudo?

Beyond the Storms

I've seen enough horror movies to know that absolutely nothing will go wrong.

Beyond the Storms

The Camspite

It had been like a punch to the gut when Krauss had decided to follow protocol and returned the plane to the hangar instead of flying the bird out to the island. If Constance had properly been miked then perhaps her few choice words would’ve been able to convince the pilot to screw regulations in favor of the spirit of adventure, but instead she had been just shouting into the howl of the wind and the roar of the engine until her voice was hoarse. What followed after they had returned was hours of Constance being moody followed by a hectic period of time where she tried to put herself together once the call was made that they were finally going to disembark for the new land. A fresh outfit pulled from the mess that was her cabin, a clean application of makeup, a nice hat decorated with a blue ribbon, and a highball in hand made her appear as if she had been completely unfazed by the otherwise full and rather dangerous day while she waited impatiently for her turn to take one of the uncomfortably tiny boats to shore. She was so eager that, come her turn, she even helped in rowing, despite the laborious work being unfit for someone of her standings.

Still, there was a small sense of disappointment as she landed upon the island. For starters, she wasn’t the first, meaning that it would be crude to try to even suggest naming the island Connie’s Landing. She blamed Krauss and his rules for that. However, what really was a letdown was how familiar the island looked—tan sand, green leaves, and gray stones. She had been visualizing something a little more foreign and exotic than what she saw outside of her vacation house in Lake Marum, like man-eating plants or painted savages like something found in a cheap dimestore novel. At the very least the sailors were thoughtful enough to bring along booze. It was bottom-shelf garbage, to be sure, but it was better than drinking her own supply dry while they waited for nightfall and the subsequent morning so that they could, hopefully, do some damn exploring.

However, in the time that she had been waiting for the men to set up their camp, Constance had managed to imbibe in a bit more than her fair share of the rum. If she was drinking in a standard social situation her beverage was often touched with only a splash of alcohol, not even enough to make a child buzzed, as if she believed that having a drink in hand made her appear sophisticated like the people always shown in the adverts. Back in her heavier business days she hadn’t drank at all, preferring to pretend that her glass of soda water was a vodka tonic.

The close call with death and the disappointment of the realities tied to their expedition had tripped something inside of her, however, and she had been more liberal than she had originally intended to be when she had taken the first mug offered to her. At this point she could feel in her body that she was at the threshold of sloppiness and should probably stop, but somebody had just handed her another and it would be rude to turn it down. Fortunately for her hangover tomorrow, Constance also had the habit of being a slow drinker, largely because it prevented her from talking. And, after a few drinks, she was ready to talk, and she was talking loud. As with anytime someone drinks, the conversation turned to a story about a time that she had been drinking.

She believed it to be an enthralling story set during a cool fall night during one of her many parties. The tale required a bit of a backstory to set up the scenario, and had a rather risque nature to it all that was unsuitable to share around respectable individuals but perfect for a group of drunken sailors. Of course, she changed the names of the people involved because, as she described them, they were very powerful, public figures and if it ever got out that it was them then terrible, horrible things would happen to their careers, and she didn’t want to be responsible for ruining that, although then she would go into great detail to describe them so aptly that only a person who had lived under a rock for the past year would not know who it was, exactly, that she had been talking about. The only fault to the story, she admitted, was that it did take quite a good amount of time to tell, but the punchline was so incredible that it made the investment worth it.

Assuming, of course, she didn’t giggle the whole way through, which, after a handful of drinks, was a pretty tall order.

“—and so, finally, after all of that nonsense, I finally—” She tittered, waving her hand. “—break the lock on my bedroom door and—” She clasped her hand over her mouth, another chuckle escaping. “—and who do I see, dressed as a—” Her hand was clutching her stomach as she gracefully snorted. “—who do I see dressed a woman but—” Constance looked as if she was almost in pain from trying not to laugh. “—but that certain businessman himself. And I say to him, what I says is—” Tears were streaming down her face, at this point. “—is ‘Oi, why you dressed up like a fancy lady?’, and you can see on his face that he’s caught, but then, amazingly, very calmly, he looks at me, and he, shit, and he, he says—”

“—Did any of you hear that?”

“Eddy, please, I don’t interrupt you when you speak. I thought reporters were supposed to be good listeners, at least the good ones are, aren’t they?,” said Constance, loudly, smacking her hands on her knees. “Now the pushy one’s, they’ll just go on forever trying to cut you off to make you look like an ass. Seriously, so rude.” A look of concentration followed quickly by one of lost crossed her face, and she frowned and threw her head forward with a sigh. “Great, now I forgot what I was saying.”

There was another loud snap. Constance apparently heard the second one, because instantly she was on her feet, her hand grasping at her chest as she looked wild-eyed into the woods. “Holy-shit-did-anyone-hear-that-there’s-something-there-what-the-hell-is-out-there?” she spat out as if it were a single word, jumping with a mix of freight and excitement, before quickly shushing the others as she tried to listen for another snap. After a second where none came, she took a cautious step towards the woods, emboldened by the booze, and whispered, “I’m going to check it out.”

After one more step she turned back to the group and put her hand on her hips, clearly offended “Don’t everybody trip over each other lining up to come with me," she said with a whine in her voice, turning her back to the woods. "Come on, it’s probably nothing.”

Beyond the Storms

I'mma be rather busy this weekend, so don't wait up for me. Should be able to post Monday or Tuesday.

Carvings of the Galaxy

---

Owen Childs

---

Owen tightened his lips as Echo laughed. Yeah, he could see the hilarity in all of it, maybe, if he wasn’t one of the poor bastards that was currently in the rather surreal situation. His mind went back to the earlier thought that, perhaps, all of this had been a test by Cryonautics to see how people would actually react to being the thawing remnants of human society, the scientists and board members huddled around monitor screens and scratching down notes about the rapidly deteriorating crew. It was too farfetched of an idea now. He knew Cryonautics had a rather healthy budget, but he doubted they would’ve greenlit an entire alien prison scenario, especially since they were already doing a great job of falling apart when stuck in their own version of a real-life bottle episode.

He tensed as the door opened, and almost lunged at the alien that pulled Tahlia away before better sensibilities and pure cowardice held him back. What could he have done to stop the Skullman? Even if he had Doc’s laser sword, he had seen how that little moment of heroism had played out. He was already shocked, frightened, and befuddled; he didn’t need to add beaten and bruised to the list. He kept telling himself that if they wanted to kill them they already would’ve, and they hadn’t. However, that didn’t mean that they didn’t want to experiment on them with all sorts of sharp, alien instruments that would pretty much be equivalent to torture by human standards. Owen relaxed, if only slightly, as Tahlia was ushered back through the door, weird bread and waterskin in hand.

Great. Even aliens have crappy prison food.

There was something that Owen had been ignoring for quite sometime, although he couldn’t say if it had been consciously or subconsciously, and that had been Yaz’s quiet crying. He felt a twist in his stomach as he realized that he had been avoiding acknowledging it completely for selfish reasons: simply put, he didn’t want to play the role that Echo had been so enthusiastically forcing upon him. Although, maybe that wasn’t the whole thing. He should’ve been talking to her and trying to, in someway, make her feel better, he should’ve kept his cool in the first place, and surely he should’ve said something when she uttered that she wasn’t ready to die.

But, considering the situation, he just had nothing helpful to say. Sometimes, saying nothing was better than saying the wrong thing. This time, though, as he turned his eyes away from Yaz so that he didn’t have to see her face, he knew it was one of those situations where saying nothing at all was the worst of options. Tahlia was the one to speak up for him and to reassure Yaz, rescuing him from the task that he either didn’t want or didn’t have it in him to do. A dozen bleak scenarios, like the possibility of experimentation from earlier, popped up into his head for reason why they wouldn’t want them dead yet, but he kept them to himself. He didn’t know if Tahlia’s words actually put Yaz at ease, but he knew for certain that his ones wouldn’t.

“You seriously ate that?” he asked, looking at Tahlia incredulously in hopes of distracting the others from any conversation about their safety.

Beyond the Storms

man do I have some nice things planned for this

@Mercenary Lord

Let's fuck 'em all up!

Carvings of the Galaxy

Aw, don't hold back.

I should be able to get a post out tomorrow or Friday.