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lastvoyages2020-06-23 11:41 pm
therushingsky) wrote in lastvoyages2020-06-23 11:41 pm
Entry tags:
Voice, Video, and Spam!
[Voice, Inmate filter]
[Rhys's voice is a little preoccupied as he speaks, like he's working on something else.]
Not that I ain't lovin' the sad endings or the grim poems and pictures of your cats, but I could kinda go for a little easy listening, if anyone knows it. Bit of opera maybe? Maybe one of you people beatbox?
[Public Video]
[Rhys flicks on video, all loose limbed under a fine layer of grime, his chest bare under baggy denim dungarees]
Hey. Power's back to the level eight common room, for what good it'll do y'all. Something cut through half the wiring leading up to the agony booth, so-- whichever of you got really overexcited there needs to work on your aim.
[He looks a little uncomfortable, reaching for his communicator, ready to shut it off.]
I'm off for the day now. If anyone needs work doing tomorrow, I'm sure you can find me.
[And with that, he cuts the post.]
[The First Glimpse]
[Rhys is in the inmate showers the first time his reflection goes-- wrong. He wouldn't have noticed at all in the steamed up mirror if it hadn't been for the strange, dark blur over half of his body. When he finally wipes off the mist, there's only a brief, strange flash of someone else. Someone he refuses to imagine he could be.
So this is some flood. Some trick to force him towards graduation, to make him imagine himself as one of them. Corporate, Hyperion scum.
He doesn't dwell on it. Not until the memories start. Glimpses of another life, another world. Memories of being scared and desperately lonely, in a place impossibly different to the Barge. Of sharing secrets with another mirror.
When he goes back to the showers, the man who should be his reflection is still there, metal hand still pressed against the glass of the mirror, expression set with frustration.
Rhys ignores him, instead, focusing on what he can piece together from the memories. He doesn't have candles, but enough engine oil and spare parts to get two small oil lamps burning on either side of the mirror, before he digs into his pockets and draws out a black marker.
He draws three lines, and an eye. The oracle, but not the oracle.]
Hey. Hey can you hear me?
[His reflection brings it's finger to the glass, slowly writing out a word that's not a word.]
Ain't talkin' to you. [He mumbles, to the corporate guy.] I want the oracle. The other oracle.
[The corporate guy (not Rhys) shrugs, shimmers, and fades, leaving the name: ⅃⅃I𐐒 Rubbed faintly on the back of the glass.]
[Mirror Memories Returning | Open To All]
[It gets worse as the days go on. Bright, brittle flashes of someone else's life, the wire wool rub of someone else's longing, love, pain, for everyone he knows--
Only not for them. Not really. All the weird, torn up memories and feelings belong to the mirror versions of his crew. They're different, and he has to remember that.
Because he is not going to be that low life greased up Hyperion scum. Not now, not ever.
He keeps going to work, keeps trying to act normal, but every so often he catches someone's eye and all he can do is stare, as someone else's memories, someone else's feelings tighten like a fist in the pit of his chest.]
[Rhys's voice is a little preoccupied as he speaks, like he's working on something else.]
Not that I ain't lovin' the sad endings or the grim poems and pictures of your cats, but I could kinda go for a little easy listening, if anyone knows it. Bit of opera maybe? Maybe one of you people beatbox?
[Public Video]
[Rhys flicks on video, all loose limbed under a fine layer of grime, his chest bare under baggy denim dungarees]
Hey. Power's back to the level eight common room, for what good it'll do y'all. Something cut through half the wiring leading up to the agony booth, so-- whichever of you got really overexcited there needs to work on your aim.
[He looks a little uncomfortable, reaching for his communicator, ready to shut it off.]
I'm off for the day now. If anyone needs work doing tomorrow, I'm sure you can find me.
[And with that, he cuts the post.]
[The First Glimpse]
[Rhys is in the inmate showers the first time his reflection goes-- wrong. He wouldn't have noticed at all in the steamed up mirror if it hadn't been for the strange, dark blur over half of his body. When he finally wipes off the mist, there's only a brief, strange flash of someone else. Someone he refuses to imagine he could be.
So this is some flood. Some trick to force him towards graduation, to make him imagine himself as one of them. Corporate, Hyperion scum.
He doesn't dwell on it. Not until the memories start. Glimpses of another life, another world. Memories of being scared and desperately lonely, in a place impossibly different to the Barge. Of sharing secrets with another mirror.
When he goes back to the showers, the man who should be his reflection is still there, metal hand still pressed against the glass of the mirror, expression set with frustration.
Rhys ignores him, instead, focusing on what he can piece together from the memories. He doesn't have candles, but enough engine oil and spare parts to get two small oil lamps burning on either side of the mirror, before he digs into his pockets and draws out a black marker.
He draws three lines, and an eye. The oracle, but not the oracle.]
Hey. Hey can you hear me?
[His reflection brings it's finger to the glass, slowly writing out a word that's not a word.]
Ain't talkin' to you. [He mumbles, to the corporate guy.] I want the oracle. The other oracle.
[The corporate guy (not Rhys) shrugs, shimmers, and fades, leaving the name: ⅃⅃I𐐒 Rubbed faintly on the back of the glass.]
[Mirror Memories Returning | Open To All]
[It gets worse as the days go on. Bright, brittle flashes of someone else's life, the wire wool rub of someone else's longing, love, pain, for everyone he knows--
Only not for them. Not really. All the weird, torn up memories and feelings belong to the mirror versions of his crew. They're different, and he has to remember that.
Because he is not going to be that low life greased up Hyperion scum. Not now, not ever.
He keeps going to work, keeps trying to act normal, but every so often he catches someone's eye and all he can do is stare, as someone else's memories, someone else's feelings tighten like a fist in the pit of his chest.]
memories returning
She doesn't announce her presence with a polite cough but instead with a sharp finger into the side of his neck.
Re: memories returning
It happens.
No.
No, no, no, he doesn't care.
"What? What do you want?"
He doesn't care if he can see her right now in his mind, gasping and scared. Of all the people on this ship, she deserves it.
no subject
"I'd be careful with how you address me Rhys, you're not exactly in good standing right now."
She circles around him till he's facing her, arms clasped behind her back.
"I have it on good authority- that authority being the security cameras- that you were drawing on the mirrors in the inmate showers. Vandalism is a punishable offence, you know."
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[Inmate Filter, towards the beginning]
[Inmate Filter, towards the beginning]
You only do the guitar thing?
cw; prostitution
But you'd have to have an instrument for me to be able to play it and I don't have anything else. I had to borrow and beg and whore myself out to get this guitar.
Re: cw; prostitution
Re: cw; prostitution
Re: cw; prostitution
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[Public]
[Public]
Or what? You gonna come scrub behind my ears?
[But for Hux he'll make an exception.]
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Re: [Public] lol the best thing he can do for Gondor...
Re: [Public] hahhh
memories returning aw yeah
"Look alive, Rhys! Did any of that get through your thick skull or what?"
Re: memories returning aw yeah
"I was-- yeah. Yeah I got it."
He's not the other guy. Not the weird, funny old man trying to protect his family. Rhys can't forget that.
"You were talking about-- uh, witnesses, right?"
no subject
Which he's sure that Rhys absolutely is. He doesn't have to ask. He wouldn't be here breaking the guy if Rhys was capable of cold-blooded murder.
"What's with you today?" He asks not out of sympathy or concern, but general annoyance. "You're more of a space cadet than usual."
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glimpse spam
RHYS?
[He hasn't been summoned like that in thousands of years. How the hell did Rhys know that ritual?]
Re: glimpse spam
And then they're back here, and Rhys is frowning.]
I got you, huh?
[His brow furrows, and he folds his arms, looking back up at his reflection.]
There must be somethin' else I need to do to reach the other guy...
glimpse spam
WHAT OTHER GUY, RHYS?
[:) think carefully about your answer :)]
Re: glimpse spam
glimpse spam
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glimpse spam
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glimpse spam
memoriessss
"Can I help you, Rhys?"
Re: memoriessss
"Goddamn load of bullshit."
He grinds out, because it is bullshit. Of course the stupid Hyperion stooge in the mirror is an Elijah Kamski fangirl.
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"I beg your pardon?"
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voice
Whatcha working on?
Re: voice
Annnnd, nothin' so exciting. Just tryin'a keep the ship together.
How you keepin' Will?
voice
[ It takes him a second or two to remember there was another question. ] I'm keeping. Just tired. [ It's in his voice, the way he falls into the rhythms of Rhys' speech. ] Harry gave me a pass to the Enclosure, if you're interested?
no subject
That's a complex memory to face all at once.
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It's not recollection of the other man that catches him, but the muscle memory of his arm, impossibly heavy and cold, running up the line of his friend's back, the collision of the Quentin he knows, gentle and impossibly vulnerable, colliding into that. Trusting that other person.
When that realisation hits him, he grimaces, almost disgusted, and reaches up to rub his face, as if doing so will banish the memory.
"Shit--"
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memories returning;
"Sweet face caught your eye?"
Re: memories returning;
Unlucky because before she graduated, she was so much like that other Hange. Unlucky because both versions of him remember adoring her.
Unlucky because this version of Rhys desperately wants the whole graduation, warden, apprentice torturer thing to fall apart. He grabs her shoulder, eyes wide, urgent,
"Hange!" Like there's something he desperately needs her to hear, "This ain't who you're supposed to be."
Which would mean, says a horrible knot in his stomach, that he isn't supposed to be who he is either.
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