turning all my mineral to stone

ct-5439 of the grand army of the republic. medic. affiliated with aldebaran sea.

[ct-5439-blog]

immanisetinanis‌:

As he walked through the strange, dark city that resided within Crises, Sephiroth couldn’t help but glance through the windows of several local stores. It reminded him of the past, of his old life spent with old comrades. Genesis would drag him along Midgar’s streets, sometimes yanking him by the hand, sometimes playfully tangling an arm in his. Angeal would chuckle, of course, following close behind the other two with hands in pockets. Sephiroth never understood what the other two enjoyed in these ventures out on the city, but he could appreciate it his own way — he considered it to be building camaraderie among the First Classes, gaining a familiarity with the kinds of lives and lifestyles he was protecting as a SOLDIER, seeing glimpses of the world beyond. Sephiroth always indulged Genesis’ desires to dress him and Angeal in various clothes and accessories that the mage thought might improve their looks, but aside from the occasional loop of ribbon or kitschy household good, he did not buy anything on those trips.

This place was nothing like the Midgar he knew, but still, there was something about it…

Sephiroth stooped low to step into a dimly-lit store tucked away near the end of the street. The little shop was surprisingly warm. Its muddied walls were bathed in the gentle dancing light of a flame kindled near the entrance, probably meant to entice customers off the cold road. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, Sephiroth spotted something nestled between several display racks of coats and hats. A dark, blood-red bag: leather, with a dark satin lining. He stroked the leather with his gloved hands, feeling the firmness of it, considering whether Jenova would mind being carried in such a material.

What was it Genesis had said about determining the quality of a leather…? Sephiroth furrowed his brows in thought as he sniffed the bag. (It smelled a little like standing water.) He remembered only something about the quality of a leather being what stood between an item that would outlive you and an item that would degrade.

Degradation….

Sephiroth snapped out of his reverie at the unpleasant memory, and he dropped the bag like it had burned him. He swept out of the shop, his cape billowing behind him. In his haste, he nearly collided past another man who was walking past the store nearly as briskly as he had been exiting it. Without conscious thought or moderation, Sephiroth’s left arm came up to place a palm in the center of the (only slightly) shorter man’s chest, and shoved.

There’s a lot Doc can say about the Ark, the majority of it disparaging, but having a selection of clothes beyond the 3 uniforms provided by the GAR was an unexpected high point.  He’s wary of the small amount of pleasure that choice gives him, considers it a wicked gateway to becoming soft and easy prey for the harsh reality that stands behind the confines of this space station, but as long as he nurtures that suspicion Doc figures he can trust himself not to fall too deep into the allure of comfort.  Of choice.  And if a particularly intimidating and flattering brimmed hat winds up in his possession by the end of the night, it’s not because he’s going soft and started caring about material possessions; it’s because he had to test his resolve.  Clearly.  

His unfamiliarity with and moral opposition to the concept of shopping aside, he’s been having a better time than he’d expected.  The stores were scattered around and moving from one to the next had become something of an obstacle course, between his need for a quick pace and the amount of rats carrying out their errands in the middle of the streets.  Irritating, of course, but he’s soothed by the familiarity of the challenge, easy as it may be.  

He’s in the middle of his trek to the next storefront when he gets unceremoniously shoved off track by some clown.  Doc was vaguely aware of someone’s rapid approach, the sound of nearing footsteps (he hadn’t survived twelve years of intensive combat training by being caught off guard, after all), but he assumed, since this seemed to be a civilized society, that they would know enough to keep out of his way.  Apparently he was mistaken, and he’s shocked by the audacity of it; he regains his balance, and before he can think about what he’s doing, Doc shoves the other man back.  

“Watch it!”

Eye for an eye, shove for a shove.  That’ll teach him.  Actually-- now that he’s seeing the guy, he looks...oh, this is rich.  Of all the people in the Ark.

He bites out an accusatory, “You,” then inhales sharply and holds it for a moment, collecting himself (nominally...) before continuing.  His tone’s shifted from downright aggressive to a disbelieving and haughtily offended scoff. “Bold move to show your face out here.  They forget to give you a comm when you arrived?”  

[immanisetinanis]

@ct-5439​

Several days had passed, and Sephiroth was still stuck here, aboard this “Ark”. It felt like some sort of sick joke — a purgatory of forced normalcy, strictly controlled and regulated. 

In many ways, he felt much as he did when he was a child. Held under a microscope, punished severely for any misstep, the synthesized voices of the Protocols and the Administration saccharine and patronizing. It drove him insane — why was this happening? To him? After everything he had accomplished as of late? He needed to get out. Immediately. He had things to do, things of great import. Not this…trifling nonsense!

Sephiroth glared into the screen of the holophone, which currently displayed a message from the Administration reminding new residents of the rules of the Ark. He contemplating hurling the phone against the wall or the floor, relishing in the feeling of a violent impact and the breaking of glass. No more messages, no more notifications, no more devices benevolently monitoring him.

Jenova’s gaze burned into him from where she sat, propped up on his room’s dresser. It reminded him that he needed to act rationally. 

“What would you have me do? Surely, you have a superior understanding of this situation from your vantage point.” He asks the head, expecting no reply. Sighing, Sephiroth returned to searching through the holophone for anything he could use to his advantage.

Ah…a map of the area. If he zoomed out, the map included depictions of the area in which he was residing (”Tranquility”, apparently) as well as several others. One in particular interested him…”Crises”. He noted several locations which appeared to function as libraries, hoping that one of them would give him something he could use.

He would go, then. Research the area, the enemy, the resources available. He would find something.

Sephiroth readied himself to leave, fastening his coat and gathering his necessary belongings (which at this point consisted of…his mother’s head, his company phone and, begrudgingly, the Aldebaran train pass). As he stepped out of his room, the holophone vibrated on his dresser. He ignored it.

[ct-5439-blog]

Doc was reluctant to head out and explore the opportunities Nectar awarded him, instead opting to flip through the dating app-- not out of any desire to “find someone special” (he’d had enough of that backfiring on him to not approach it again), but because it worked as a convenient means of learning more about the residents of this place.  Easy method of threat detection, evaluation, and of finding prime targets to bother, if he needed to keep himself entertained.  So far, the search hadn’t been giving him many satisfactory results in that respect-- however, he’d just found a profile that struck his interest.  The man’s information led him to believe that they had similar viewpoints, similar values.  He may prove to be worth talking to.  Connecting with another person who had a disregard for the rest of the population sounded enriching, and above that, it would be sure to keep Doc’s own attitude sharp.  An appealing prospect.  He could be fun to converse with, though if the picture was anything to go by, the hair seemed impractical. But who was he to deny someone their vice of vanity if it was deserved, the way this one seemed to be?

He tapped out a brief message to this “Sephiroth”, something indicating the parallels of their attitudes and the possibility that he could be beneficial company, then tucked the phone in his pocket alongside his train pass.  He also grabbed the small pack of medical supplies he never left the apartment without; he may not have his blasters or his full kit, but he wasn’t going to be caught completely unawares if he could help it.  He’d gotten fed up with the constant pleasant view in this beach city, and the place called “Crises” seemed like a good bet for that homey Kamino gloom-- not to mention the opportunity for new clothing choices, the utility of the libraries, and the potential that his medical skills may be called upon in a crime-ridden city.  He could only hope.  

During the train ride, he grew increasingly irritated.  He’d sent that message several hours ago, and still hadn’t received a reply back.  The nerve of him, refusing to acknowledge his gracious offer of some sorely needed like-minded company.  (Hmph.  Just proves he wasn’t worth his time after all.)  Aside from his bad attitude, the train arrives in Crises without incident, and Doc immediately makes a beeline for the cramped streets.  He’s not sure where he’s heading first-- the area he’s cutting through seems like a residential section, but if he continues on long enough he’s sure to find a storefront or library at some point.  He’s in no rush, either way.

[rc-1330-blog]

@ct-5439

[ct-5439-blog]

rc-1330‌:

Hardwire had got good at reading people.  When you had to gather intel without punching in someone’s teeth, you had to learn to spot signs.  Follow body language.  This clone was young and his posture shouted arrogance.  That he almost immediately called Hardwire a Mando’a term for grandpa stuck out as well.  Hardwire wasn’t sensitive about his age, but it did inspire some small amount of irritation when people opened with it.  But it was useful… if he used it.

He remained seated.  May as well play up the decrepit old man act, he figured, rubbing one knee as if it was bothering him. His eyes drifted from the watch, back to the younger clone.  If the kid was any bit as prideful as he thought, he had to wonder how he’d feel about hearing the reverse.  His Mando’a was rusty, but he’d said the term for child plenty while raising Arana.  “Not at all, adi’ka.  Just an old man’s hobby while he tries to acclimate to…”  Hardwire gestures around himself. “…whatever this place is.”

Hardwire finishes setting a gear in place here, a spring there.  If you watched him do it, you wouldn’t ever guess he’d only done this once or twice.  The watch was archaic compared to timepieces back home.  An analog mechanism with no digital parts.  Godawful to look at, but a beauty to work on.  It took him a minute before he realized he’d stopped paying attention to the clone.  “Sorry, I tend to get caught up in these things.  So, the elephant on the beach.  You’re obviously a clone.  I’m figuring you don’t have much of an idea as to how we got here than I do.  Not much use asking about that.  Which leaves… personal questions, I guess.  Who were you with?”

Doc just stands there for a bit, watching Hardwire work on the watch.  The diminutive nickname rankles him, but considering he did want to provoke the guy into responding, it’s about what he expected.  There’s some small satisfaction in having his own barb tossed back at him, so he takes the teasing easily, only lifting an eyebrow in return.  He doesn’t move any closer, but he does note the way Hardwire favors one knee-- both as a personal note, to keep an eye on that in the unlikely case he ever hits this age, and as a professional one.  

“If that’s bothering you, I’ve got a couple sprays that’ll take care of it.  Capsules, if you’re planning on being in the water in the next four hours,” Doc tilts his head to indicate the problem joint as he speaks, voice flat and businesslike.  Aches and pains were boring to treat, but it was more than he’d had the opportunity to in weeks.  He’ll take what he can get.

When Hardwire addresses him again, he nods through the statements, yes he’s a clone, yes he’s got no clue how he got here, yes it’s stupid they were taken from the field where they were needed, all of the essential information.  Doc considers the pros and cons of revealing personal information, briefly, but this guy was another clone.  There’s no ranking officers for the next few lightyears.  What’s the worst he could do, knowing the bare minimum about his assignment?  Wasn’t like the Seps had infiltrated the GAR again, after that first mistake.  Even then, if this guy was a spy, there’s no one to report to.  Who cares.  Besides, if he gives this information out, the old man should give some in return, and Doc’s curious about which sector army he’s from, and if there’s just been a secret platoon of geezers out there that no one knows about.  Weirder stuff’s happened.

“I’m one of Priest’s boys, got folded into the 88th Brigade.  Working under a General Va’ris now, fixing up scraps in the mid-Rim,” he says, and pauses.  Asking him outright would probably yield better results than waiting for him to answer on his own, but going through the effort of actually throwing someone a conversational bone...ugh.  This place was chipping away at his resolve.  He reluctantly continues.  “...You?  Must’ve been an early batch.  If not the earliest batch.  Didn’t realize they’d started cranking us out that far back.”

[ct-5439-blog]

rc-8018‌:

Doc, for a bizarre moment, sounds borderline amiable. He almost sounds like he isn’t implying they’re all less than human. Maybe that’s not what he means. But Hope doesn’t especially care what he means, and he’s getting more tired of this by the second.

“You don’t have many friends, do you,” he observes flatly, and crosses the room to leave.

“Never saw much point in it,” he offers, with something as close to an amicable smile as he’s capable of.  It comes off as more faintly amused and condescending than anything else.  He doesn’t realize that, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he did.

He gives a curt wave as the commando heads for the door, and lets him leave.  He respects that, appreciates that there’s a like-minded clone in this place.  Smart move, not having a name.  Puts them on equal footing.  

[rc-8018]

- (Republic Commandos: Hard Contact, by Karen Traviss)

[ct-5439-blog]

rc-8018‌:

Hope had really been crossing his fingers that 5439 wouldn’t know what the hell he was talking about. The cat-that-ate-the-cream grin that spreads across the medic’s face is, unfortunately, confirmation in more ways than one. He can feel this day getting worse moment by moment.

“Right,” he says, somewhere between ironical and aggrieved, “imagine.”

Hope has never really had a reason to think twice about his general lack of discretion when it comes to his partners: he tries to confine his hookups to people he’s unlikely to see again, to avoid unnecessary personal complications, but there’s never been a downside. Here, glaring at Doc’s unpleasantly familiar face, basked in shimmering ocean light, Hope is beginning to reevaluate that.

It isn’t as if the guy shot him in the leg or anything. Hope can’t justify actually lashing out, shoving him across the room the way he’d like to, just to get him out of his face. It’s been months, at least, since that singularly unpleasant shuttle transit back to the Inner Rim, but the feeling of exasperated, teeth-gritting disbelief is as fresh now as if he just stepped off the shuttle and into the bastard’s room. (He’d say again, but it’s not as if there was a bedroom involved last time.)

Hope sighs, suppressing the seething irritation, and folds his arms over his chest as he turns to face the window once more. “So do you have a name or what?” It doesn’t really matter, and he’s already making a mental note to change 5439′s number in his phone to some variation of ‘do not answer’. “I don’t recall.”

That’s technically true. The medic hadn’t ever given him his name, but Hope eis happy to take the opportunity to be dismissive.

Doc’s mood has improved tenfold since the realization hit, and it’s only gone up from there.  As far as he’s concerned, he’s won this confrontation, and with that security, he’s gotten much more comfortable.  The irritated tone in 8018’s voice only serves to buoy him more, and his grin becomes more wretched.  This is exactly what he wanted.  There’s something incredibly satisfying in being able to rile up the temper of someone so determined to be friendly; he takes pride in that skill, and he’s downright tickled to see he hasn’t lost his touch.  Maybe this guy coming over wasn’t so bad, after all.

He doesn’t often get the opportunity to run into past hookups-- whether it’s their maneuvering to avoid him, his pointed efforts not to learn names, or simply the size of the GAR that means he doesn’t recognize them, he can’t say, but it does get at him, just a little.  If repeat encounters were always like this, he’s been missing out.  Is this how his squadmates wound up with so many friends?  He can understand the appeal of it, now.  It’s such an easy way to get under someone’s skin.  Who knew friendship was fun, huh?  

Still incredibly happy with himself for the whole situation, Doc doesn’t see the need to get in the commando’s face about how pointless names, as a whole, were, and decides to let that slide.  Save it for another day, when he’s feeling appropriately surly.  He doesn’t make much of a move, just slips his thumbs through his belt loops and stands by at a comfortable rest, watching Hope turn back to the window.

“No.  But if you need me, you can call me Doc.  It’s what everyone else does.  Don’t see the point in wasting time calling us anything else; job’s all you really need to know if you’re bleeding out, right?”

He doesn’t sound sarcastic, for once, or even biting.  He thinks he’s being friendly.  He doesn’t particularly feel like asking someone else’s name, though, no matter how nice he’s being.  He leaves it at that.

[rc-1330-blog]

@ct-5439

Hardwire eventually circled back around to Nectar.  He still didn’t care for it, though it was growing on him.  Though he couldn’t bring himself to return to his lodgings, as they still reminded him a little too much of Kamino.  He’d taken to milling about on a beach, trying not to dwell on his encounter in Tranquility.  Seeing other clones drug up too many feelings he’d long-since buried after the war.  The whole train ride back, he kept getting flashbacks of Shell.  When they’d first been assigned into a squad together, or their first mission.  The end, too.  He saw the end a lot. 

Hardwire couldn’t - no, wouldn’t - dwell on it though.  It threatened to consume him if he let himself think about it for more than a minute.  However, nothing he tried distracted him long enough.  Fishing, browsing the market, or even more people watching.  He finally got an idea, though, and offered some local credits to buy their watch.  Then he went to the market and got a kit of basic tools: a screwdriver, pliers, so on.  Nothing he could use as a weapon, mind, but useful for disassembly.

He returned to the beach and sat himself down, pulling out the tools and the watch.  And he began to take it apart piece by piece.  He placed every part by itself on a small napkin, mentally cataloguing where each piece was for later.  The precision and care he took with each one was laser-precise, coming from years of practice.  Really, while it looked hard, it was child’s play compared to building himself an arm.  It helped that said arm made his finer movements that much more exact.  Finally, he had the whole thing disassembled.  It was all in order, and his mind was quieted.

After a minute or two of enjoying the feeling, he reassembled it and fastened it to his wrist, standing up.  That would keep him calm for awhile, and it beat his other idea of tearing apart his holophone to see what made it tick.  Hardwire began to depart the beach when he spotted a face that made him freeze for the second time that day.  Standing a little bit down the beach was yet another clone.  Because of course.  Not the same one, because this one sported a beard and a partially bleached ponytail.  Hair dye had never been his first choice (or even his sixth), but to each clone their own.

Hardwire deliberated for awhile on how to proceed.  He wasn’t going to be the one to approach, that was for sure.  Why surrender the advantage and introduce himself first?  He sat himself back down, fiddling with the wristwatch, and observed.  Waiting to see if the other clone noticed him.

[ct-5439-blog]

For all his time in this place, Doc hadn’t really done much to get himself acquainted with the area.  It was the first time he’d had the luxury of being well and truly bored, with no threat of death looming over his head and no bodies piling up outside medbay due to his lack of action; there was simply nothing pressing to do, for once in his life, not even routine equipment maintenance, and he spent his first few weeks indulging in that boredom after the initial paranoia had abated.  As of late, though, he found that he was tired of being bored.  He’d taken to wandering the markets, taking stock of all the pointless trinkets the locals put up for sale, getting some cruel amusement from the knowledge that it was all worthless garbage that they had wasted their time on, and taking that small joy with him to the beach, where he would just...sit, for long periods, not doing much of anything.  (The hypocrisy of scorning the locals for wasting their time on making objects while this was his primary occupation never occurred to Doc.)

The waves reminded him of Kamino, as did his room, and it was strangely comforting.  He wasn’t one to place much weight on nostalgia, but back on Kamino, there was an order to things, and an atmosphere, a set of rules, that he understood.  You had one purpose, right-- to die for the Republic, and in the process, follow your assigned role in service to that organization.  Everything else was secondary, which made things simple.  All he had to do was keep himself from being at the bottom of the food chain, make sure there was always someone lower than him, and he’d survive.  He did his job every day, followed orders, and sure, he didn’t like it, but that didn’t matter.  He had no other choice, and letting his sheer dislike for orders get in the way of his performance would have marked him as weak-- so suck it up.  Grit your teeth and get through it.  What would Priest have said, if he saw you like this?  The looming threat behind every monitored action on Kamino was routine.  Soothing, even, to remember.  Here, the sound of the water brought that back.  It wasn’t sentiment that kept Doc in Nectar; it was necessity.  Without the reminder, he’d lose sight of that purpose, the pointlessness of their existence, removed from the context of the war.  He needed to keep that in mind; he couldn’t lose his edge, now.

In addition to that, it did...ugh.  It did make him miss the presence of other clones, though he was loathe to admit it.  The constant irritation they caused him was useful in keeping perspective.  Their futile attempts at individuality, at making themselves anything more than numbers to a deathcounter at the end of all this, grated on Doc’s nerves, a whetstone for his temper.  It gave him something to focus on, instead of being full of an aimless energy with no outlet.  At least clones knew where they stood with each other.

The lack of familiar faces around finally gets to him, and it’s like an itch at the back of his mind that he just can’t scratch.  Might as well go back to the room, then.  Nothing better to do out here.  Doc huffs out a sigh at no one in particular, and hauls himself to his feet.  He starts stalking back toward the residential area, but-- further down the beach, there’s someone who looks unmistakably similar to Jango Fett.  Fuck.  That’s just his luck, isn’t it.  He doesn’t really have a choice, at this point; he changes direction and heads toward the clone.  He’s not sure what he’ll get out of this, exactly, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out.  Make it worthwhile.

The closer he gets, the more he notices about the other-- strangely enough, he looks old.  Not 99 old, not...malfunction old, but weathered.  Like he’d actually been alive long enough to warrant those added years.  Doc wasn’t sure he’d ever met anyone older than 15 in the GAR; the Kaminoans hadn’t been hatching them long enough for anyone to have had time to reach middle age.  The results, he observes, aren’t awful.  Fett aged well, the bastard.  (That said, though-- if they were being abducted by other beings for some sort of inevitable death match in the way he thought, he doesn’t really see the logic in kidnapping a clone this close to expiration.  It seems like a poor choice, when there are several million other soldiers in their prime to choose from.  On the other hand, he figures even a crotchety old bastard like this was almost certainly worth more in a fight than any birthborn recruit.  Huh.)

Doc pauses a few feet away, settles his hands on his hips, and lets vague exasperation filter into his voice as he calls out to him.  “Hey, old man.  Ori’buir.  Having some trouble?”  He gestures loosely at the watch he was still fiddling with.

[ct-5439-blog]

rc-8018‌:

Hope is not easily annoyed: maybe he’s learned some tranquility just by refusing to let his anger surface completely, or maybe he just has a sanguine streak to balance out the intensity of his other emotions. His face doesn’t change as he stares back at 5439, but he can feel the irritation solidifying in him like the precipitate of a chemical reaction, hissing and bubbling.

He can’t quite put his finger on the reason, either. He suspects it’s the obvious antagonism bleeding off the CT that’s making him prickle, like a push before a fight breaks out.

“I didn’t say that. But it is strange. Someone I met suggested this is just a setup for some kind of war game. If it is, then having a couple of clones here isn’t so–”

Hope cuts himself off, as quick and complete as a stone falling. A key turning in a lock.

“Were you at Ando?” He turns, facing 5439 fully now, and takes a half step forward. Hope doesn’t intend to loom over him, narrowed eyes and and ominous black clouds, but he doesn’t try to soften the effect, either. Intuition and realization is coming to him in a dizzy rush, like the ground at the bottom of a fall. “The second battle. On the transport back to Coruscant.”

Maybe he’ll get lucky. Maybe 5439 will say no.

As much as he enjoys provoking others, having someone lean over him and employ intimidation tactics is far from the top of his list of favorite responses.  He squares his shoulders and straightens to meet his eyes unflinchingly.  Sure, 8018 had an advantage in terms of pure mass, but hell if he was going to bow to this asshole for a question like that.  What was his issue, anyway?  Ando had been uneventful, as far as these shitshows go-- it was practically a routine run.  And he’d done great work too, considering the nasty landscape, the bad weather; losses were within parameters, and the patch-up jobs were done with all his typical skill.  There was nothing to complain about, so frankly, he’d appreciate it if 8018 would get out of his face.

“Of course I was there,” he scoffs. “How else could they have managed to win?  This time around, they had a better medic.”

Doc tilts his head to the side slightly, throwing some attitude into his matching glare as he takes a moment to actually consider the question.  The fact that 8018’d specified the transport back struck him dully; it was a strange thing to hone in on, considering the answer to the first question would be the same as the second, provided neither of them had died on that field.  And clearly, they hadn’t.  So why-- huh.

He blinks.  The realization hits him like a hammer to a bell, sharp and clear.  He does remember a commando on that transport.  A slow grin crawls onto his face, all teeth and smug delight.  He hadn’t noted the name at the time-- wasn’t important enough to recall (never was), and the fact that he was an RC was plenty identification on its own.  Certainly enough to give him bragging rights whenever it came up.  

“Oh, that was you,” he says, barely making an effort to conceal the pointed humor in his tone.  “Fancy seeing you here.”  8018’s thunderous expression and dangerous proximity no longer mattered to him; as far as Doc was concerned, he had the upper hand.  Conversationally, at least.  

Of all the clones to run into on this hell station, this...well, he thinks it’s funny.  Maybe he shouldn’t’ve been so hard on him for bursting into his room (yeah, right).  Things had gone a lot smoother last time, after all.  He’s not looking for a repeat performance, though; while he’s more than confident he could swing the conversation in his favor, he’s not sure what the relationship rules for being stuck in a different dimension are.  (Better not jeopardize what he’s already got.)  Doesn’t mean he can’t have some fun prodding at 8018 over it all the same.

[sorryfortheraybans-deactivated2]

some people have moneys. some people have freaken dollars and cents. some people have coins, and bucks. and well i’m not one of those people.

[sekusekusekuseku-deactivated201]

you have jaundice.

[sorryfortheraybans-deactivated2]

i have jaundice.

[sagihairius]

miss job hunting back in the day when you could just ride into town on a horse and be like “i’m a doctor” and everybody was like “cool no need to see if that checks out or anything”

[daily-garfield]

submitted by interplanetaryescape

[shacklefunk-deactivated20220623]

the dogs wouldn’t stop getting in my dads gross chair so he carved this weird sculpture of his own frowning face with a chainsaw and puts it on the chair when he’s not sitting in it. the dogs are scared of it

[deer-head-xiris]

-Inktober: Day 24-

“Medic’s on the way, maintain your position! You’re going to live to fight another day, soldier!”

[ct-5439-blog]

rc-8018‌:

‘If they’re not going to use us to their advantage’ – what the fuck is wrong with this guy? Hope’s face is calm, rippling with the reflected light of the ocean outside, but internally he’s rolling his eyes. He does– begrudgingly– see the point: it would be awfully odd to steal a munitions shipment without any intention of blowing someone or something up. In the grand arithmetic of things, they’re not so different. Hope hasn’t met anyone here he would exactly call harmless, either.

(What that gem alien, Pearl, told him rolls around his mind like a marble: some kind of fight to the death, a fantasy battle royale for the amusement of their zookeepers.)

Hope studies 5439 as he settles against the glass. He’s confident– over-confident, perhaps– but not so stiff as 7994, or so immediately preoccupied with rank. It’s bothering him. A leak in the ceiling, drip, drip, dripping at his attention.

“I don’t have enough information to be sure about anything.” That’s about as correct an assessment as he can give in the situation: if he were trying to avoid being court martialed for impropriety or risk being hauled into one of the emergency psych units, that’s all he would stick with. But a fucking lot of good ‘I don’t know’ does you in the field, when you have to act, instantly and correctly, every time.

“Something brought us here. Nothing I’m familiar with. And now it’s watching us. Studying us. Testing what we do with its maze.” His gaze is intense and direct, his head cocked to the side as he traces out the shape of 5439′s expression. His thoughts flicker over everything he’s done for the past two weeks, methodically and systematically setting out to measure the shape of the threat. Is there a hypothesis? A test? He’s been trying to find one without success. “I can’t work out an objective to all of it. There’s no pattern to the other people who wound up here– seems like a random bunch of mostly human civilians. But then there’s three clones.”

Hope lets out a long, measured breath, the smooth artifact of a would-be sigh.

“Out of everyone in the galaxy. There’s long odds for you.”

He acknowledges the disclaimer that comes before 8018’s theory with a brief nod, and listens more intently than before; this was, after all, the primary reason he was allowing this whole interaction to happen in the first place.  (Never mind that the commando had done all but push his way in.)  

As he absorbs the information, his expression sours.  When 8018 finishes his spiel, Doc’s first response is to burst into harsh laughter, colored with bitter humor.

“Oh, we’re being tested, are we?  Feels like home, then-- nothing like being put under a microscope for some high and mighty shitstain’s pleasure.  Can’t wait for them to start poking and prodding; Nala Se would be proud.”  The name drips off his tongue like a curse, cold anger turning it corrosive in his mouth.  He’s no stranger to the topic of studying subjects, determining their fates over a set of arbitrary criteria and numbers, but he’s used to it being done with a clear purpose.  At least with the Kaminoans you knew what you were getting into, what they expected, the consequences of failure.  At least when he was the one charged with evaluating soldiers for survival, he gave them a face to put with their reaper, gave them a target, and they were excruciatingly aware of the reasons behind their disposal.  Here, though?  If 8018 was right (and Doc has no reason not to believe his theory, as much as he hates to admit it), whoever was in charge of all this was determined to stay unseen, keep their motivations hidden, their contact indirect.  He hates that.  Bunch of cowards.  They’ll have to reveal themselves sooner or later.

He can feel 8018’s eyes on him, and meets his gaze with a stony look.  He wasn’t expecting good news about the situation they’d found themselves in, but having to hear it out loud solidified things, made the danger more real.  The indistinct quality of the threat makes it worse, and it clings to his mind like a spider’s web, leaves him feeling...itchy.  Irritable.  Prickly.  He follows the commando’s example and lets out a short, sharp expulsion of breath, though it’s closer to a ‘hnf’ or a ‘tch’ than 8018’s restrained sigh.  Doc lifts his chin haughtily and glares down at him through half lidded eyes; he’s making the executive decision to shut down this thorny feeling of dread before it can take root, and the commando had outstayed his welcome as soon as he’d finished the debrief.  Doc figures that means he has no excuse to be hospitable anymore.  (There’s a slim chance 8018 could still be useful, and at least with the RC here he wasn’t as bored, but really, if he could only tolerate him when he’s being exhaustingly nice, there wasn’t much point in keeping contact.  S’not like they were assigning squads out here.)

”What, you figure it means something?  Hell, maybe it really is a rescue mission,” he bites out sarcastically.  “‘The Force’ wants the three of us clones to get together, pull off a coup, save all the dikut’la softshells in this place, right, right.  Out of the goodness of our hearts.  There’s an explanation for when we get back.  The Generals’ll eat that up.”

[ct-5439-blog]

rc-8018‌:

Hope digs his teeth into the tip of his tongue. And he thought CT-7994 was lacking a few social graces. This bastard’s are MIA entirely. He can’t shake the sense of familiarity that blooms alongside his irritation– like the heat of spice spreading over his tongue. (A new metaphor, courtesy of his time exploring as many food vendors here as he’s been able to find.) He doesn’t dig into it– he’s met his share of bitchy troopers, whether they’re holding a grudge against commandos or just have defective personalities. This is just one more.

Hope smiles as 5439 begrudgingly opens the door and, a few beats later, steps back. It’s always nice when someone doesn’t make him push to get what he wants– easier on everyone, and he doesn’t want to risk damaging the door, besides. He lightly skips over the sarcasm. “Nearly two standard weeks. May I come in?” He doesn’t wait for a response, slipping past 5439 and stepping into the room.

His stomach drops at the sight of the wide-open ocean pressing in on the glass. Just enough light filters through to limn uncertain shapes moving in the distance. The only external sign of the icy bolt of fear that pours through him is the way he stops short for the span of a second or two, only a few paces past 5439.

Hope recovers quickly, picking up his voice as he takes a few more steps– slower now– toward the window. “Couple things. First, there’s no visible indication of immediate danger. Second, I don’t think the Seps have anything to do with this. Third, everything else is insane, so bear with me.” His fingers brush over the glass. He can see 5439′s reflection behind him, thin and transparent in reverse. “Supposedly this is an alternate plane of reality. When I first arrived I met someone who didn’t know what a solar system or an orbit was. Half the people here don’t know how to use the comms, like they’ve never seen it before. I don’t think they’re lying.” He stops short of confirming whether or not he believes any of it, despite that: it’s uncomfortable, slippery like gripping something soaked in blood. “There’s you, me, and one other trooper, CT-7994. 327th, E-Web guy. As far as I can tell no one else here has anything to do with the Republic or Separatists.”

Hope stops, glancing over his shoulder to gauge 5439′s response. He’s not optimistic, but the guy did ask.

Doc’s annoyed.  This guy seems just as determined to be friendly as he’s determined to be frigid, and he’s pushy.  He shuts the door behind him, and watches as 8018 comes up short upon seeing the windows.  Now this-- he’s seen that kind of pause before, almost exactly.  He can draw the conclusion.  Not the first trooper to have issues with open water, that’s for damn sure.  

His mind wanders, briefly, recalling some near misses he’d had to stitch up after that same split second halt had nearly cost a teammate his life, all because the idiot’d caught sight of a sea beyond the ridge, or the glint of water on the horizon.  He shakes his head once to clear it; forget that guy, 8018’s the one who’d better keep his deal in check here.  Though, by the sound of it, it doesn’t seem like he’s got to worry about open combat in this place.  Still-- the only reason he doesn’t comment on it is because he’s making the magnanimous decision to restrain himself and play nice.  It’s exhausting, extending that amount of courtesy to someone who clearly isn’t going to return it, but Force, he’s not an animal.  And, more importantly, he doesn’t see any other convenient fonts of information coming to visit.  He might as well get as much as possible from this.

He elects to ignore the talk about “different planes of reality”.  He files it away for later, sure, but it sounds...fake.  Not worth paying attention to.  The news of Seps not being involved, on the other hand, caught him by surprise.  The lack of a Republic presence doubly so.  A brief flicker of shock passes over his face, but he quickly masks it-- it’s shaken him a little, though.  Considering his whole life (their whole lives) has centered solely around the existence of the Republic and the Seps, well, it’s hard to conceptualize a world those forces hadn’t shaped.  It would make sense that the war had left some parts of the galaxy untouched, but acknowledging it in theory was significantly easier than potentially dealing with the reality of it.  

”Of course we get dropped in the one place in the universe where no one’s fighting.  What’s the point of kidnapping us if they’re not going to use us to their advantage.  Doesn’t sit right with me.” Even if all the others that’d been dumped here sounded...useless.  He starts wandering over to the window while he talks, leans back against the glass with his arms still crossed.  “You think it’s some kriffed up version of shore leave, then?  Kick back, relax, enjoy the sights--” At that, he looks pointedly to 8018 in front of the window, then finishes his thought.  “-- all with no consequence?  I don’t buy it.”

He still looks disinterested and vaguely irritated, but he’s stopped scowling at this point.  He’s loathe to admit it, but he’s curious about the guy’s take on the situation, and waits for him to voice it.  He figures the silence is enough of an invitation for 8018 to give his opinion, since he seemed so eager to barge in.  

[transmikecrew]

[ct-5439-blog]

rc-8018‌:

Hope restrains a sigh: of all the clones he could meet, of course it’s one with a mouth. The sarcasm doesn’t quite dampen his enthusiasm all the same. He leans against the door frame, pressing one palm against the door– it won’t be getting shut in his face if he has anything to say about it. The face peeking through the crack is a grim scowl.

Is it just his imagination that this CT-5439 feels familiar, like the taste of burning rubber on his tongue? He doesn’t know the number, at any rate.

“No.” He offers a warm, if apologetic smile. “Sorry. I just saw a CT number show up on the contacts list overnight. Thought I would check on you. RC-8018,” he adds, by way of introduction. He almost continues– are you settling in yet? have you explored anywhere? do you have questions?– but reconsiders. Better to let the trooper respond first.

Doc notes the pressure on the door and reluctantly accepts that he doesn’t really have a choice in the matter of letting this guy in or not.  Still, he waits a few beats before giving him the satisfaction.

”The welcome service’s appreciated,” he says sourly, and swings the door the rest of the way open-- he’s got a palm pressed against his side of the door frame, resting his weight on that arm, and is standing in front of the entrance, blocking the way in.  His posture is lazy and loose, but he’s distributing his weight so he can easily shift into a ready position if a fight were to break out.  Just in case.

”I’d offer my number, but it seems you’ve already got it down.”

He glances to his shoulder, expecting the telltale medic insignia on his pauldrons to speak for itself with the inevitable nickname, and he’s faced with nothing but fabric.  Right.  No armor.  The realization hits him dully; it feels like an old bruise already, not having the protective shell around him.  Not that it kept much from hitting him in the first place (he’d had plenty of experience with shrapnel extractions to know just how little it actually stopped), but-- he couldn’t afford to waste time concerned over what was missing.  Get over it.  Move on.  Focus on the important things.

So this 8018 is a commando, huh. He gives him an appraising once-over, now that he can see him in full. The way he holds himself, the fraction of extra height, the build-- he wasn’t lying, Doc could tell that much.  Unfortunately, that meant he probably knew what he was doing.  He’d be an idiot not to take advantage of whatever information this guy had gathered, as irritating as it’ll be dealing with a commando and all of the smug attitude that comes with it.  (Something about this guy’s completely unremarkable look itched at the back of his mind-- it was nothing.  He’d been spending too much time around his squad, he was forgetting what being around normal people was like.  If you could call any of them normal.)  

”You’ve successfully checked in on me, then,” he spreads his arms slightly as if to indicate himself and the room behind him. “Find what you were looking for?” he asks dryly, then grimaces.  Something that might’ve been an attempt at apologetic briefly flickers across his face, and he hisses out a breath, begrudgingly lowering his defense by a few degrees before stepping back.  “Look, you’ve clearly been here a minute.  I’m assuming that means you know something about how this place works.  I could use that-- the comm’s only given me so much.”