driftfleet | i know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

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i know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

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ROOMS BY CHARACTER

N - P

Nami

Natalie Goodman

Natasha Romanoff

Noctis Lucis Caelum

Nono

Okita Souji

Otono-Tachibana Makie

Pavel Chekov

Prompto

Q - S

Riona Cousland Theirin

Rip Hunter

Sokka

Sorey

T - V

Takeshi

W - Z

Yuan Ka-Fai

Zaveid

Zelda

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Natasha glances around the bridge, then to the parlor. Her discomfort is clear. She doesn't like being here, that is clearly evident. It's also clearly evident that she's not going to get out of here doing nothing.

Natasha doesn't hate easily, but it's safe to say that she hates this.

After a moment of consideration, she moves to inspect the nearest console. That, at least, seems less personal.]

[Well, at least she does hate it properly. That's something.

Approaching the console reveals images of assorted rooms; from their design, it's not hard to guess that each might be some space aboard the ship on which she now stands. They cycle about in a pattern, as one might expect a security camera to. Watching would allow Natasha to see a empty containment cell, an empty set of crew quarters, the parlor, an armory full of weapons, and a long expanse of hallway.]

You'll need to tap one to pick it. [The voice of Rip Hunter sounds out from above, somehow, although the man himself remains unseen.] It hardly matters which. The records of this ship are quite thorough.

{{ooc: mostly talk of murder.}}

It doesn't matter which, huh? [Somehow, Natasha doubts that's the case, but sure. They can do this.

It seems voyeuristic, but also somewhat familiar. Snooping security cameras? That's a Tuesday.

She taps on the hallway video.]

[Oh, but it doesn't. No matter what she chooses, Natasha would become privy to something Rip would rather not have her see.

Her, or anyone.

She taps the screen, but it's not a video that plays. Rather, Natasha finds herself in the scene, part of it, the odd inhabitant of a role belonging to Rip Hunter.

You stalk out of the room into the hall, shaking your arm as you go; you may have knocked the man out but that was a terrible punch, one you can feel all the way up to your elbow. It hardly matters that he deserved it; he baited you with that remark, taunting your inability to protect anyone--

And because he'd been right, you'd lost your temper.

You just need a moment, you think, stalking down the hall. But you aren't on your own, however; a woman follows, demanding to know what he meant, you already tried to kill Savage. Leave it be, Sara, you demand, but she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. None of them every bloody do--

She goes on, gentle. When you interrupt her, you are not. Your anger still burns hot, and reciting the tale only adds fuel to the fire. You could've killed Savage. You could have ended it--

You hesitated.

You cannot look at her. This, of all things, is your greatest shame. Of all the choices you've made, the people you've condemned to die for the sake of preserving history, in this single moment you've assured the death of those you care for most. Centuries before they're even born, you could have saved the lives of your family--and you've failed.

She tries to understand. Perhaps she does, in some ways, because Sara's hands are steeped in blood. Even she says that killing is never easy, especially for a good man.

As if you could be called a good man.

You meet her eyes in disbelief, shaking your head. The man killed my wife and son, and God knows how many other wives and sons, and I couldn't--

The words stop thick in your throat. No. You couldn't.

Killing people doesn't make you a monster, Sara. You draw in a breath; there's no more anger now. Simply sorrow, and regret. But having the chance to avenge your family and not taking it--that does.

You walk away from her.

You walk away, and as suddenly as it began, you're once more on the bridge.

Not alone, however. Rip has now appeared, though in the form of a hologram. He stands next to where Natasha has only just returned, or perhaps where she's been this whole time.]

No; I'm afraid it really doesn't matter what you choose.

Edited (accidentally hit the wrong button damn it) 2017-06-10 17:28 (UTC)

So they're all like that.

[That's what he's implying. That anything she chooses, it'll be something equally bad.

She understands his perspective on that. It would be hard not to having just experienced it herself.

But coming out of the memory, she has to say Sara had been in the right there.]

Don't suppose there's a way to avoid this? Just... sit down. Play some chess and go back when we're done?

[She knows better than to expect that.]

[Equally invasive at the very least--which to Rip, is bad indeed.

He hums a soft assent at her appraisal, although of course he doesn't know Natasha's personal opinion on the memory itself. Only that she's seen it.]

No, I'm rather afraid not. The ship's in something of a lockdown. [Though significantly quieter than normal; there are no blazing alarms, no flashing lights warning of danger.]

Although believe me, I'd much prefer to have some alternate option.

[Standing around uselessly while people poke around his memories isn't exactly Rip's idea of a fun time.]

Edited 2017-06-10 21:43 (UTC)

[Natasha draws a deep breath, releasing it through her nose in a sigh. She's starting to get the idea how this works, and yes, she really does hate it.]

Don't suppose you can tell me the quickest way through this? I'd rather not see more than I have to.

While I appreciate the thought, there doesn't appear to be a set way to escape--save for going through the viewings.

[He frowns; he should be able to give a better answer than that, yet the detail eludes him.]

The only advice I can offer is to proceed.

[In front of her, the console still shuffles through its assorted images, although notably the hallway no longer appears among that number. Instead, there is a medical bay, along with the other rooms from before.]

{{cw: violence}}

Edited 2017-06-11 16:22 (UTC)

[She doesn't for a moment mistake his words for real consent to her spying on his memories and his feelings, but she does take it for a sign that neither of them are going to have much choice in the matter.

She can just try to get through with as little invasion as possible.]

All right. We'll keep going then.

[This time, she selects the armory.]

[Her intention to minimize the invasion does turn out to be somewhat ironic with her selection. As before, the scene shifts about her, but this time it begins in darkness. Oh, but you can see well enough; the target you've been chasing, a young man so many years your junior, is crouched over a panel trying desperately to restore at least some of the ship's power. He's done it right too, from what you can see in the dim bluelight he works by. He asks for the effort not to mean his end, and seems to be rewarded indeed as the lights come on.

To reveal you standing there in wait. Well done you offer, before firing a shot purposefully high. It sends him running, though there's hardly any place to go. You stand between him and the exit after all, and even the rows of weapons on display have been rendered useless through your earlier assault.

He tries a different tack; so young and naive, and foolishly optimistic, appealing to the man who you used to be. As if you could feel anything but loathing for that man, Captain Rip Hunter, time and time again made into a puppet by those who would use his intelligence and ability for their ends, and never his.

He let his family die, after all, and why? So the Time Masters could install a despot to the throne of the world, for fear of some alien invasion? To preserve the sanctity of history, of reality by not using the Spear? In all of time, Captain Rip Hunter was the only man who knew where the fragments were.

He could have regathered them, used them. Could have made right the wrong done, once and for all.

He didn't.

You will never forgive yourself for that. But now, with the Legion, you are free from those misguided principles that would prevent such a reasonable action.

Jax traps himself in a corner, and you aim your gun at him. He offers up the one thing he still can, the location of the fragment you're after, and smartly so. But the young man is quite clever indeed, and no doubt he's rigged the hiding spot in some fashion.

Show me, you demand, and with your gun still pointed at him, you head out of the room.]

[There's a lot going on there.

So much.

Natasha isn't sure if it's that Rip was telling the truth, and every memory is equally invasive, equally difficult, or if she's especially lucky. She closes her eyes for a moment.

If she's meant to judge this, she won't. But she will apologize to Rip later, when they face each other in the real world.

It's bad enough being forced to share like this. Worse with someone who's nearly a stranger.]

Not enough yet?

[He waits in silence while she gathers himself; of all people, of course Rip stands quite aware of just how difficult his memories are to view, to feel as this room has been designed to do. She's managed to pick a pair with a common thread, though only by coincidence in the end—both memories shared the core of his inability to save his family, both times due to his unwillingness to act.

The difference is, one could be argued to prove him a good man; the other, he saw himself as a fool.

She offers no comment on the memories themselves. He expects her to; others have before her.

In the end, however, she merely asks if it isn't enough—and with regret, Rip shakes his head.]

I'm afraid not. [There's a pause then; while he cannot control specifically what she sees or chooses, there is some guidance he can offer.] Is there anything you want to know? Keeping in mind that learning something is unavoidable, that is. I can—narrow down the options, I believe.

[Show her things that are perhaps less cruel, somehow.]

There are a lot of things I'd like to know, but this isn't how I want to find out. [She looks at the screen rather than at him, but her focus isn't quite on it. It's internal, thinking of what she already knows, and how very much she doesn't.

Of course, she has questions.]

We don't always get what we want though, do we?

[Them specifically, or people in general, she doesn't bother to define. Either way is true, so there's no reason to put too fine a point on it.]

Which would you pick?

[It's a thought he at least appreciates, regardless of the futility--something which Natasha herself points out a beat later. Instead of attempting to throw out some arbitrary factor, however, or narrow it down to a certain category (things that aren't terrible, perhaps), she asks what he would choose. Rip takes a slow breath in--entirely out of habit, rather than need in this form--considering his answer

Though there's less to mull over than one might think.]

It appears I can't answer that. [To make such a specific recommendation based on his own opinion; interesting limitation.] Though I can tell you that if you're hoping for something mundane, you're rather out of luck.

[Filling out reports or doing quiet calculations likely wouldn't be interesting enough for public consumption anyway--assuming this is still being broadcast somehow.

Given there's no reason not to, it's an entirely unpleasant thought.]

As you said, Miss Romanoff. We don't always get what we want.

[A wry bark of a laugh.]

No, I wouldn't expect that. No memories of standing in line at Starbucks. Watching Netflix.

[If only. Can't blame a girl for trying, though. Consider it her due diligence. If she has to do this, she wants to make it as comfortable as possible.

Seems like that's the only thing she can do.

She goes for the med bay.]

[Comfort is at best a child's fairytale under these circumstances. She laughs and jokes about conventional things for her time, ordinary things—yet Natasha knows as well as Rip by now that those things likely weren't common in his life anyway, and not only due to his time.

What she does bring up is far from a fairytale; it's a tragedy, though you hardly see it that way as you stand over Sara's body, so weak and pale from the injury inflicted earlier. Seems Martin, now crumpled on the floor behind you, had managed to save her—for all the good it would do in the end. After all, you've got your hand wrapped around her throat, and even as she so ineffectively grips at your fingers, you hold tight while she struggles to breathe.

All to an end. Jax appears in the doorway, no doubt drawn in by the scream Martin let out as you knocked him unconscious. He starts to come at you, his intentions clear, but the gun you draw stops him where he stands. You ask him again, your voice clear: he's been defeated. He will not let Sara die, and you know this. Where is the piece of the Spear?

And yet he still resists. So much bravery for an entirely foolish cause, and with a sigh you fire, close enough that he thinks you mean to hit him—near enough to force him to duck and roll away. He's quick to stand once more, but the advantage remains yours. Not only are you armed, your hand remains on Sara's neck; you tell him that they don't both have to die, and close your fingers cruelly tighter.

As expected, he calls upon your so-called better nature. Inside your telescope, and then Jax looks at you with naïve expectation, implores you in Sara's name because you cannot kill her—you cannot.

It might have been true once. You look down at her, prone and helpless still, and think of a time gone by.

When you had been just as foolish, once.

You say her name as if it's supposed to matter to me. But just as before, when you shot her, you feel utterly nothing for the woman now entirely at your mercy. Jax stands near, perhaps waiting for you to prove some of your "former self' remains—or for the opportunity to take you down.

He won't have it. You meet his gaze, your own cold, your voice unfeeling.

She doesn't.

It's easy to snap her neck; the sound of it fills the room, and you take your leave. Jax might follow you still, but not yet. First the despair would overwhelm him, granting you the time you need to finish your task.

You walk into the darkness, leaving the medbay behind—leaving the memory behind, and Natasha once more finds herself unmoved on the bridge.]

[If he's looking for someone who won't judge easily, he's found that in Natasha. Her expression tightens and her gaze drops, but her reaction is more complicated than just judging him for whatever he may have done or why.

The more she sees, though, the harder it will be to leave questions unasked.

She rubs her own neck absently, very well aware what it feels like to be on the other side of a strangulation.]

So that's it. We just keep this up until I've seen all of them?

[Rip says nothing, although he remains. The AI is always present on a ship, always watchful of it's occupants.

He understands well why she needs that time. Even without the implications of her gesture, those memories are hardly easy ones--nor do they fit so neatly in with the impression most have of Rip Hunter as he is now.

All for reasons that can be easily defined in the end--but she does not ask that question, and thus he won't provide it's answer.

Instead--]

Actually, three seems to be the designated number.

[Indeed, behind her comes the sound of doors opening; the entrance to the bridge itself, past the parlor on either side.]

Not that I can stop you should you wish to be more, but--there's a bit of a minimum in play.

So I see. That's good to know.

[Natasha frowns, not going for another memory since it seems she doesn't have to, but not in a rush to take advantage of the way out either.]

But you're stuck here either way? Doing this again?

Whenever anyone shows up, I'm afraid.

[His expression mirrors hers: a frown as Rip mulls over what he knows.]

It's a rather odd brand of cognitive intrusion, but none of us seem to have much choice in it, do we?

[She crosses her arms, unsatisfied with the answer but nothing is going to change that.]

That might be the worst part of it.

[She doesn't seem inclined to press further on, at least. Rip appreciates that much.]

I'd dread to think what aspect you might consider worse than the unwilling invasion of one mind by another, and with full access to the memories contained within.

[Though there is an answer that comes into Rip's thoughts even as he asks, and all too easily. Thus far, it's merely observation--that they know of.]

Maybe I'll let you know when we're actually face to face. But... that might be telling.

[And he may have noticed, she tends to avoid that as much as she can. They've been forced into a very intimate situation quicker than either of them would have ever consented to, revealed things they'd preferred not have put on display.

Couldn't really be blamed if they wanted to maintain some boundaries after that.]

I'll talk to you again, though. Sound like a deal?

[It's something he's picked up on, yes.

But the agreement to talk is at least an easy enough one to make. Rip nods his head.]

A rather fair one, in fact. I would say I'll be looking forward to it, but--

[He gestures upward with a hand. Rip highly doubts anyone is looking forward to the consequences of such meetings.]

No, not that.

[Neither of them are looking forward to that. But she thinks both of them can see the value in it, the productivity.

She nods a lat time before heading for the door.]

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i know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

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the hallway; cw: murder talk

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