driftfleet | [open] august starstruck mingle

[Sam can be found in the lounge, a small drone purchased from the planet on the table in front of him. He's got some bits of scrap metal (painted red and silver), and it looks like he's trying to attach a small camera that transmits back to a tablet (also bought on the planet) onto the drone. What use is a drone made for remote spying in outer space? Hell if he knows.

He's also in the kitchen, experimenting with something he's pretty sure is pasta. Apparently he picked up some food supplies, and he's trying to make spaghetti, just for a change in the menu. He tastes the sauce with a spoon, makes a bit of a face, and adds some spices in.

(There's also a box of bakies on the table. You're welcome to have one.)]

[Look. Look. He knows things have been even more strained than usual in their circles... but this is pretty severe lately, huh? Even Jarvis can feel it, like hairs on his arm standing on end. It stands to reason, he should come visit and make sure everything's in tip top shape. And everyone is alright. There's a distinct... absence of a particular brute and his shuttle, which isn't entirely strange.

But still. The fog around Miss Carter has scarcely dissipated since the calibrations. Not that he's much better, but he's learned to simply bury it under work. What sort of agent work can Miss Carter do here? She's likely letting it all fester and build up, and that won't do!

So with that in mind, he takes over the kitchen and starts baking enough miniature pies to kill a man. It keeps him busy, but it also allows ample time to spy on everyone and see how they're fairing, you see. Brilliant.

... And maybe... he'll tidy up, if needed.

Find him during the cooking, or, you know. Pouring himself a cuppa while the table is completely masked in miniature pies.

~~and yes, so far this mingle has been people, like, stress cooking~~]

[To be fair, Rip's constant state of being is regretting his life and his choices. What's got him more sullen than normal now are the choices of the Atroma, whom seemingly brought Gideon into the Fleet just long enough to make Rip wonder about the future and about her, an AI suddenly turned human, before seeing fit to shuffle her off again, back to their own universe.

And it should be all well and good. She's not there suffering, and besides: Rip's last action before being drawn into this nightmare himself had been to leave the very ship that housed her. Yet somehow it was easier before she'd been brought back into his life for that too brief a time; missing her and the Legends and home hadn't been so potent a thing.

Now it eats at him, right along with everything else they've seen and experienced these last months. The failed raid, the calibrations, executions and now the rather disturbing "retirement" of a ship from the fleet. It's all a mess of mysteries without answers, and Rip absolutely hates it.

Being at a system offers some means of distraction, at least. The kitchen certainly seems to have benefited it from it; Rip's goal seems to be to have the thing fully stocked before they set off again, and to that end he's been purchasing what reasonably unsuspicious meats there are to be found, along with what seems to pass for real dairy: butter, eggs, cream. The latter is bought in smaller amounts, however; the icebox remains iffy at best, and those remain perishable. For so much the same reason, there's more canned and jarred produce than fresh on the shelves; stuff that will last longer once they've set out, but that isn't powered, dried, and likely synthetic. Bread is another thing now found aboard the Starstruck as well; catch him at the right time, and a person might find him spreading a touch of something brown and potent on a bit of toast to have with his tea.

All in all, it seems when Rip sets out to do something, he means to do it thoroughly.

And to top it all off, he's set up a request board—although the scrawled warning of "no promises" isn't the cheeriest footnote to have added, he's at least willing to try? At least when he has the chance to actually use the kitchen. It seems to have become a popular place as of late.

But all of this aside, Rip's by and large kept to himself. He goes about his self-imposed chores--cooking, learning the ship's systems, stocking the kitchen—but they're all potentially private activities, in the end. Sometimes he can be found in the lounge, but usually only when Max has deigned to share the record player. Amazing how long a man can sit around listening to a record, absently squeezing the life out of some deformed stress ball (courtesy of some random shop, advertised by the logo emblazoned on the side). The rest of his time seems to be spent either on the planet or in the privacy of his room. Perhaps for the better; Rip doesn't really seem to be in a good mood when he interacts with anyone.

Although equally, he won't outright be hostile. Probably.]

Edited 2017-08-03 22:36 (UTC)

[ we took a hit, steve would say if someone had asked how they were all doing. there's a strained, pained atmosphere on the ship that doesn't seem to go away. it's a bit more confusing to him, owing to the three weeks he had lost in the duration.

one would think that after missing seventy years, a three-wee coma would be nothing, surely. however, there's still an odd sense of lost time, of nothing between now and the marsiva. when he wakes, that's when he's only starting to process the events, what he saw, what people had seen in his mind.

that in mind and quite like many others, steve's natural reaction is to withdraw a bit. he spends most of the time on the ship, surely. but so many of those hours are spent at the weaponry behind closed doors or at cargo bay on the treadmill. the first mate seems to be sporting a beard that he hasn't bothered to shave yet.

when he's not there, one could surely bet he's at the gym on the iskaulit, taking out his anger and frustrations and sadness on the sandbags. you might spot him when he leaves, wrapping tape around his palms or on his way back, removing it and flexing and unflexing his fingers.

he's very rarely seen anywhere else. almost as if, even after he had awaken, he sticks to staying clear of everyone's way.

and then there's the odd day or two he spends behind locked doors at the weaponry, coming and going from the room with a pile of odd equipment, scissors, needles, thread and a bottle of fabric dye, of all things. nothing about his posture says ask me what i'm doing but you can try your luck anyway. ]

[ （ｐｒｉｖａｔｅｔｅｘｔ｜ｓａｍ） ]

[ it's one late evening when the message comes, as polite as always:

hey, got a minute? ]

[Score one for Peggy, she's managed to drag this one back from the planet. With promises of tea. Or mostly because she really seemed like she wanted him to return -- damn her and her iron grip. Max eventually comes back, unshaven and scraggly from his days of utterly abandoning self-care so that he could wander aimlessly aboard the planet. First thing, shower. Because he doesn't want complaints from the captain that he really shouldn't leave shuttle oil on his skin.

Second, replacing the wheel on the shuttle. He's not going to say he's back, but usually they somehow have a knack for telling anyway.

One thing: his limp is far more pronounced than usual.

And there is an obviously new pair of injuries. One is a cut across his hairline, and one is the smallest of discolored bruising on his cheekbone. There's even still a little blood on the corner of his shirt, but it's hard to say if it's his (it isn't).

... What? You should see the other guys. Most important thing is, he's brought back some fun stuff after a bit of dangerous and illegal shit for credits; he knows most people on the ship would lecture him on it since they're usually keen on following moral law, so he's not gonna even mention what the jobs were.

But anyway. Cool stuff. Probably his best 'pointless objects' haul, if he did say so himself. Sitting on his desk, there's a really nice 'oldschool' earthian steering wheel (that he totally stole from illegal happenings), a couple of vinyl records (nothing recognizable, but there's some soothing melodies in there), a 'vintage' replica train set, just a few funny road signs, and a little something for the oldtimers on the ship:

Obviously not an original either, just a gimmicky sort of thing people're selling. The numbers on it aren't even in normal numbers, but some kind of alien sort. But, you know. To him it reminds him of his youth. It's funny.

Maybe someone can make it work, somehow.]

Edited 2017-08-06 02:24 (UTC)

sam | open

Visiting as always.

Rip Hunter | OTA

steve rogers ✮ open.