the veil is thin . . .

[thespaceopera]

[ On the night of the 16th, the feeling of tension and horrid anticipation comes to a head. Everything stops when the sun goes down-- even the ever-present music in the hoppingest part of the city center. One by one, everyone turns their eyes to the skies. The young and old alike pour out of their houses, some in bare feet, and they point to the velvety blanket of stars.

It takes a second to find it, especially if one is unaccustomed to the starscape. But even a casual observer can see it.

A brightly-shining star, larger than the others, and growing larger.

An announcement cuts across all communication channels that encourages people to evacuate to the space station, but it’s clear that these are just people and they’ll need some help. Supplies, equipment, organization, there’s something for everyone to do.

Civilization is disrupted by a panicked stampede of people vying for limited seats aboard spacefaring craft. Within hours, there will be crushed glass, looting, and chaos.

The clock is ticking. Will you help? Or would you rather watch the dying gasps of a Singing Planet from a safe distance? ]

[OOC: Please see this post for plot details. Phase two has begun! Feel free to use this post as a reaction post, mingle, etc. or make your own!]

Comments

[ecclesiophobic]

[(Excuse you Chekov, don't make him haunt you as the ghost of Better Self Esteem.)

Kurt meets the frown and the other man's words with a stone face, the only movement when his eyes narrow suspiciously. He's right; part of Kurt still welcomes the chance to die a hero. The desire isn't half as strong as it was when he arrived in the fleet, because even with all he's lost here he has too much to live for. But he's an X-Man first, and they die on their feet.] If this is a distraction to sedate or otherwise incapacitate me, nothing in this universe will stop me from showing you why the name Darkholme was feared on my world. I don't care how angry it would make Kitty.

If you sincerely need help, what can I do?

[candothat]

[(Bring it.)

Chekov is more surprised by the idea that he'd try to incapacitate anyone than by Kurt's threat. He has to remember that Kurt hardly knows him and he's from a far different world. Horrible things happen in Chekov's universe, of course, but people can generally be trusted.] I have no intention of giving you a reason to do that.

I need someone to hold a panel so that I can inspect an engine. [He gestures to a nearby shuttle--one from the fleet, dirty and battered enough to make its ship of origin indeterminable. Although this is something that he can technically find a way to do by himself, it would be simpler with help and, perhaps, it can distract Kurt into taking something of a break.] A waste of your talents, of course, but it won't take long.

[ecclesiophobic]

[Kurt knows Kitty trusts him, and so Chekov is firmly lodged in his mind as someone with a good heart. Katzchen's made some poor choices in the past so far as friends (and lovers, which apparently he was to her in a possible future), but all of them that he's known had redeeming qualities. Piotr was once his friend too. But kind hearts are just as capable of treachery, and usually at the most inopportune moments.

Though his expression doesn't change, Kurt notices the lack of fear in Chekov's face. Impressive.

He snorts at what he sees as an obvious attempt at buttering him up.] Please. If it gets that engine running, it's not a waste of anything. [In a move that isn't as fluid as it should be, Kurt is suddenly skittering down the (wall, he's pretty sure now it's a wall) on all fours with the ease of a being built to do just that, rising back to two feet once he hits the ground.] After you.

[candothat]

[Chekov isn't afraid of Kurt. He trusts him and, even if his trust is misplaced, there are more frightening things than threats of bodily harm.

Obvious or not, it didn't hurt, right?] Thank you. I promise to be quick. [Even though this is a distraction, time is of the essence. He heads for the damaged shuttle and pries open a heavy, grated, and badly dented panel that, while hinged and clearly meant to open and stay open until manually closed, could well close on anyone who crawls inside to see to the engine. It could just be removed, but that time could be better spent elsewhere.] Please keep this from closing on me. The shuttle won't run well with me blocking its vents.

[ecclesiophobic]

[More fool him; though for all Kurt claims to be shifty and untrustworthy, a Darkholme, he has his own code of honor. That was one of the first things his mother taught him, when they thought he'd live forever--decide what you will not be and hold to that, no matter what. Your morals will stay with you when the memory of deciding them is lost to time and the limits of the human mind.

Kurt follows the other man on mostly silent feet, hunched over in a posture that would be highly uncomfortable to someone with a typical human skeletal system. For him the reverse is true, and he's too tired and sore to keep up appearances.] Nein, but throw you in the engine and we wouldn't need to oil it. [The grim humor is a reflex; Chekov's accent is just enough like Piotr's that defaulting to the sort of jokes he'd make with the man is too easy to do. Reminding himself to watch that, Kurt leans against the panel, using his body weight to hold it open.] Go, do what you need to.

[candothat]

[Chekov thinks nothing of Kurt's unusual posture. The dark humor, however, gets a smile.] Miststück. [He knew that retaining some knowledge of German would come in handy someday.]

If you close that on me and I die, I can promise that I will haunt you. [And with that extremely sincere vow, he wriggles into the guts of the ship until only his feet are visible. Soon after, there are a number of productive-sounding clanks and clinks and a few words of gentle encouragement directed at the engine. Getting antsy yet, Kurt?]

[ecclesiophobic]

[Hearing his own language thrown back at him draws a grin; worn, but still full of dark glee. It takes him a moment to think of an appropriate response, as his Russian hasn't seen regular use since Piotr was alive.] Мудак. [His accent also isn't very good.]

Now that would be something new to see. Maybe; do undead things count as ghosts? [This is not a rhetorical question, though he asks it lightly. It's a distraction from the urge to take off; too much to do, and standing still seems to amplify the ache in his chest. The point of his tail taps against the panel, though not to any discernible pattern.]

[candothat]

[The response makes Chekov huff a just-barely-audible laugh. They're going to have to insult each other properly later, horrible accents (his German is far more mangled than his English) and all.]

Mm, I think this depends mostly on your definitions of those words. [Don't worry, he's perfectly capable of working and talking at the same time.] By my definitions I would say no since, although both something that is undead and something that is a ghost have died, the undead thing is currently living and the ghost is currently dead. This would make me undead but not a ghost, and I would like to continue not being a ghost for a little while longer.

[He chooses to interpret the tapping as a sign that Kurt isn't keen on sticking around much longer. Even though he doesn't believe that Kurt intends to murder him, it seems polite to update him on his status.] This will take thirty, forty more seconds. Thank you for your patience.