(no subject)

[boymeetsfatherhood]

Who: Cory Matthews and whomever!
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: SS Huntress
When: Backdated to the day of the Shuffle!

[Cory had arrived not long before the Shuffle, and so it's all just clicking in for him as he's beamed onto the Huntress. He thinks he has it figured out.

And so, one might pick up on a family resemblance as he shouts.]

SHAAAWWWWWN!!

Where are ya, buddy? Come one out. You finally did it. Prank of the century. I really thought I was in outer space for a minute. But I got you now!

[He lingers for a moment, looking out one of the windows into space.]

Whatever you did? It's really convincing. I'm impressed! I hope you didn't spend too much money on this...

♖ 001.

[summerschild]

Who: Bran Stark and YOU
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: The HS Marsiva Hospitality Deck
When: 6/13

[On the Hospitality Deck, there's a little lump of dirt and fur on the floor next to one of the cots, twisted up in the white sheets. Bran had woken up in a fit of panic, scrabbling for the damp floor of the Queenscrown holdfast, and then-]

Is anyone there? Hello?

[A bump on his head aches from the tumble. He doesn't understand what he's seeing in front of him, through the clear glass of the bowing windows. It makes him dizzy, and he rubs at his nose with one grubby hand. His fur cape is still muddy from the thunderstorm, making him look a bit like an abandoned puppy.]

I need some help!

[He tries to use the cot to pull himself back up, but with a click the wheel unlocks, and sends the bed teetering towards anyone coming across the floor. Oops...]

➵ 001

[buttsbuttsbutts]

Who: Sera & you!
Broadcast: Fleetwide audio
Action: HS Marsiva hospitality deck
When: 6/13

[It's the clothes that get her, before anything else.

They haven't been this clean since the day she got them, maybe not even then, and they smell wrong -- not like fresh air and sunshine, but artificial and flowery. Like they haven't been washed proper and hung out to dry. Like maybe they were cleaned with some sort of something else and she's not saying it's magic but, look, it's probably magic.

She shivers, and draws her legs up against herself, hugging her knees. This whole thing is wrong. It doesn't even feel fade-y or demon-y but it's still wrong, and terrifying by default.

It feels like a long time before she finally finds her voice, but in reality it's less than five minutes before she's on her feet, ready to start shouting. A good thing for her reputation, probably -- no one needs to know she was too terrified to move for approximately three minutes.

That's not to say she isn't terrified now. Oh, she's scared out of her wits, but it's easier to channel that blind terror into anger.]

HEY! [She's yelling at the top of her lungs.] You! Whoever! Little kidnapping shit with your stupid room!

[She gives her bunk a hard kick for good measure. ]

I know you're listening. Your sort always listens, because everyone else being afraid makes you feel big. So come out, then, yeah? We can talk. Talk talk, like people do.

No punching.

Or biting.

Or...hair-pulling.

Just talk. Promise.

[She hangs out for a few minutes before deciding to sneak out of the room. She's pretty sure her gear must be locked in a chest somewhere nearby because that's how bad guys always do it. ]

(no subject)

[survivalistcookbook]

Who: Eugene Woods, et al.
Broadcast: Fleetwide video
Action: HS Marsiva hospitality deck
When: 6/13

[Action]

[Eugene isn't necessarily a light sleeper. But he wakes quickly, when something is wrong. And something is definitely wrong, all at once, enough to have him pushing himself up and looking around, breaths coming fast and voiceless and silent.

He doesn't whisper for the name spinning through his head over and over, just pats to the edge of the cot in a haze of cold dread, feels nothing, curls his hand around the edge for balance as he scans the room. Other cots. Other people. The place is clean in a way nothing's been for years, sleek and shiny. Only the lack of overt scientific or medical purpose keeps at bay the worst of his fears, the darkest rumors and insinuations they'd scraped together over the years.

After several long minutes of staring out into the open room, he finds the communicator set down beside him and begins to browse transmissions and archives. Even then, he's tense and silent, eyes flitting up to track any movement or sound.]


[Transmission]

[Later - after a few hours of reading, and observing the goings-on around the deck, and a few several-minute stints of just trying to breathe slowly and not freak out - Eugene makes his first effort at hailing the network. He's set the device down on his pillow, and his expression is soundly unimpressed as he sits on the edge of the cot.]

Okay - this is the best open letter to our mysterious production staff that I can manage, but someone has to say it.

Seriously, guys? This is your ratings grab? This is your cool new hook for the week?

[He is not amused. He is so not amused.]

Don't tell me - is this supposed to be the inspirational overcoming adversity angle? Or is it just the kind of good old-fashioned entertainment where we can fly people through space, but we can't toss on a few robot limbs or whatever?

Guess I'll have to wait and see how it all comes out in post-production, huh. Great. Good job guys. Get those viewers.

[He reaches for the communicator and tips it, putting all of himself in the frame - down to left thigh that thins out and ends in a twisted line of scar tissue, several inches above where a knee would be. Eyes narrowed in resentment, he pats it emphatically a few times, then switches off the feed.]