driftfleet | the white noise is deafening silence

[In the very early hours of January 20th, as the Marsiva and her captives drift nonchalantly through the depths of the universe, there is a call. Every single personal communicator and console springs to life, spitting out a stream of indecipherable static and showing only gray snow on screen. It continues like this for a few seconds longer, going black and then going staticky, and then the signal switches to the encrypted channel generally used for speaking to the Interceptors when something big goes down.

This is a little more successful. The voice may be familiar to some, at least through the static.]

Zhade here! I trust I ███ your attention? I'm having some ██▓▓ble ██tting through. Some of the ░▓██▓█ are missing. I can't ░▓▓▓ read on their loc█████ns. [A particularly long burst of static.] ███stening. I'll s█▓▓█ more inf██▓▓▓▓▓█ I get it.

Stay sharp! [There's the sound of someone actually doing the fingerguns wink noise, and then static.

Any messages sent back won't get through, and Zhade isn't there to answer.]

[ A blip of lost time passes right after those words, before every passenger mysteriously wakes alone in their own unfamiliar room. The style of decor resembles that of the Marsiva's Hospitality Deck, if any passengers should remember what that's like. It sounds and smells the same as the host ship as well, all clean and chrome.

Welcome back to the Marsiva, dear passengers. It's time for round three of calibrations. ]

[ This mingle will cover all non-calibration room interactions. Please continue to come back to it for the duration of the plot! You are, of course, free to post any other mingles/posts/etc. that you'd like. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He was honestly surprised with how open Alfred was being. He had struck him as the reserved butler sort, one to quietly observe and probably judge but not actually say anything about it, and keep everything close to his chest. A trusted sort, but not one to give up much about himself.

He sipped his drink in the quiet after, not wanting to give Alfred a flippant answer, though he wasn't sure Alfred was even looking for one. Sometimes you just needed to vent. But...

"I've been here three years now, maybe a little more. I don't count to closely," he tapped the edge of his glass thoughtfully. "But I've learned - I've learned that you can't worry all the time about what's happening at home. It sounds callous, but it's the truth. All you can do is have faith in those that remain. Faith that they'll be okay, that it will all somehow manage until you get back. And here? Here we keep moving forward, towards the way home, though it's despairingly slow. But I know we'll find a way. One day. Just not as quick as anyone would like."

There was quite a bit that Alfred hadn't revealed about himself, only just enough so Kirk could understand the situation that Alfred had arrived from. He felt that Kirk would understand and know enough to keep the situation to himself. He was thankful that Kirk had waited till he finished before responding. He was surprised to learn that one could be part of the Fleet for such a long time.

"You're saying that people here are trying to do something about this? What progress has been done? I would be more then happy to help lend a hand." Alfred replied a little more settled with the idea. While he wasn't keen on the whole waiting thing, he was going to have to accept the fact and try to do something here instead.

Kirk made a motion with his hand, not stemming Alfred's questions, but as if to say "not here". Not the Marsiva, the seat of power. On the ships, where he could properly tell him about the comm link that they had managed to secure away from Atroma. So far it had either gone unnoticed or was deemed not a threat, and Kirk wouldn't jeopardize that with to loose lips.

"Easier to talk about when we're back on the Tourist," he said aloud, hoping Alfred understood and didn't think he was blowing him off. He nodded to the food Alfred was working on. "Almost done? I can smell it already and my stomach is growling."

Alfred took the cue, realizing too late that he stepped into a sensitive subject in the wrong place and time. He didn't dwell on the subject any longer. "Right, the stew should be ready to serve. Just let me cut up some fresh bread to go with it. If there are any recipes you want me to follow let me know. I'll be happy to replicate them."

As he spoke he cut up the bread to serve with the stew.

"So long as you can make a really good apple pie, I'll be happy. I think our little replicator should be able to make those... or we can get something close enough from one of the planets stop at," Kirk moved to refill his glass as Alfred busied himself. "Sure glad to have a real cook back aboard again though."

"I have a few recipes in mind. As for the replicator I still don't fully trust using that. It's not something I'm familiar with using. Perhaps, you can show me how that device operates."

Alfred gave a nod toward the acknowledgement of having a cook. He then grabbed a bowl and filled with the bread. He placed them at the table where Kirk was sitting at. All his basic needs already set before him.

"You're friend, Remy had informed me that you prefer to do the breakfast on the Tourist? Do you wish for me not to cook then or just reserve certain days for you?"

"Ah, well, I do like cooking breakfast, but usually it's for - well, Remy. We're lovers," he explained. "You don't need to be shy about saying it either. There's no reason to hide it here. But back to breakfast - no, if you feel like cooking, I am happy to yield the floor to the much more experienced." He bowed to Alfred, ever the showman.

"Ah, well that's something that your partner failed to mention." Alfred replied more amused then anything.

"By all means keep to your routine, if I feel the desire to cook breakfast for everyone I'll do so."

Alfred waved off the bow and ushered Kirk to go sit down. "Eat before the meal gets cold."

"Yes, sir," Kirk chuckled, taking a seat and gathering his utensils even as he admired the plating Alfred had done up. Kirk was of the sloppier variety, but then pancakes weren't exactly a pretty sort of food - at least to him. There a lazy Sunday kind of food, slathered in butter and syrup and berries.

"If I make pancakes, you're welcome to some. I usually make to many anyways," he grinned, a touch lopsided, but still charming.

the white noise is deafening silence

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