driftfleet | 0 0 1.

Who: Michael & you??
Broadcast: Fleetwide.
Action: Marsiva, like there is anyone THERE RIGHT NOW.
When: Idk the 20th? Let say that??? don't ask me.

[ The feed flicks on and he is upside down, giving the thing the same sort of look someone would give a person who turned out to have two extra heads talking in tongues. Or if those two heads were actually snakes, or dragons. Michael turns it until he appears on an angle, then shakes it, disrupting the feed with a few erratic shakes. ]

It's broken. [ He announces to practically no one, his voice is rough - gravely - as if he hasn't been using it for a while. ] This is fucking stupid. Send me back I'd rather deal with the bullshit tower and dumb robots. I had a comfy bed there, and a room, and people that didn't smell like shit. Or rotting bodies.

[ Last he remembers Robin's still there, along with all some other people he can't be bothered remembering the names of (Tabby, he remembers Tabby at least). He'll be pissed if he disappears again. Michael scoffs, leaning back and lifting the camera above his head. ]

This place also looks like shit. Couldn't kill you to add a few more colors in here or something, my damn eyes feel like they're gonna melt.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I don't fucking know.

[ He inhales sharply, looking away from the camera for some sort of escape route - someway he can get off this ship and to where ever the hell Robin is. ]

But I am, I'm damn well here. Stop freaking out.

It's been years, Michael.

[that's it, that's it, he has no fucking clue. he presses his palms harder into his eyes, hunching forward. seething.]

[ It's been years, Michael.

Years. Years. It's been years? His surprise is unguarded, raw, disbelief clinging to the lines of his mouth, panic to the lines of his eyes. It couldn't have been... how? ]

What are you talking about? [ He all but chokes the words out, a mixture of anger and panic forming a lump in his throat. ] This isn't funny.

I have been away from the tower for almost two years. You were gone. I wasn't-- You can't--

[it's getting bad. it isn't funny. gods, for a second he sounds unabashedly miserable.]

You aren't supposed to come back...

I─ [ Gone, again. For a brief moment Michael looks pained and the camera dips, as though he thinks about dropping it or tossing it. Gone. Gone. Gone. Said he wouldn't do it again and he did, didn't he? Two years? Two fucking years.

Dammit. ]

Always do, don't I? [ There is meant to be a joke there, sardonic words mixed with a shitty grin that he can't quite summon up right now. ] Fuck.

[would it have been better if he tried to deny it? maybe.

because the understanding is what makes it sound like him, what sends the memories grinding through his bones. all of that time, how tense he was, how angry. how happy. why? he has so much here, even now, compared to then. why this?]

So I can't, okay? I can't. Not right now. I need to think. Okay?

[he finally lifts his hands away from his face, and at least he wasn't crying--but his expression is bitter and tense and he still presses his fingers into his temple with all the irritation of someone who's world is being irreversibly altered without their permission.]

It'll keep you there until the end of the week. You need to--sit. There.

Can't what?

[ He feels like shit; stomaching twisting, lump in his throat, he wants to hit something or scream or do both. He wants off this ship, find Robin and do something - he doesn't know what yet. Something.

It feels too much like he is being forgotten, ignored, force to stay in this damn ship with nothing but his own thoughts and he hates it. What if he throws the damn thing at a wall, hard enough it could punch a hole throw it right? ]

Are you fucking kidding me? Just sit here and twiddle my gods damn thumbs while you're─ [ Words catch, blood pulsing angrily in his throat. ] Great.

Edited 2015-04-20 23:12 (UTC)

I know.

[he has been. forgotten. he hasn't thought about him in months. and now that he's here he wants to shut him out--while fighting the rising fear that if he turns this feed off, he's going to disappear again.]

Look, there's a frequency number in your communicator. Find it, tell it to me. We can talk there.

[ He can't do it, can't sit here, can't wait. Michael's not a patient person in this, no patient has long since left the building. The feed shakes, soft sounds of nails scraping against the fabric of his pants.

Don't leave, don't abandon me. ]

Fine.

[ It takes him a moment to find but he finds it, repeating the number half-heartedly. He's frustrated, panicked, caged. Hates it, hates this, hates the stupid fucking communicator, hates space. ]

[he plugs it into his communicator. his hands are, comparatively, very still. puts it down with a horrible, murderous calm.]

I'll send these wolves running.

[--he cuts the feed.]

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