piper90npcs (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
piper90npcs) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
goneawayworld2021-02-08 01:02 pm
piper90npcs) wrote in goneawayworld2021-02-08 01:02 pm
Entry tags:
Happy Valentine's Day!
Who: Rig workers and New Hires
What: Valentine's Day Events
Where: The Rig
When: Valentine's Day
Warnings/Notes: Violence likely.
A. Cupids aren't as cherubic as they appeared in Renaissance-era artworks. The little bastards float with the bodies of babies, but the huge, flatly reflective grey eyes of a cave-dwelling monster and the teeth of a viperfish when they open their mouths to deliver a hideous, staccato cackle. They flit around in the air in clumsy bursts with all of the grace of a concussed mosquito, only remaining upright half the time, but twice as hard to catch. That doesn't change the pinpoint accuracy of their aim, however, as they open fire with arrows of pyrite.
That's another difference in the myths. They don't target people and make them fall in love. They target lovers, or people with crushes, shoot to wound, and feed. Dozens of them careen drunkenly through the halls of the Rig, searching for people who are a little too obvious about their unspoken desire for affection. When caught, they squall like babies, then try to take a chunk out of their captor with their vicious mouths, opening far wider than a normal baby should be able to manage. Fortunately, they don't seem to be more durable than most babies, though their appearance and cries are enough to put off many Rig workers from a solution more permanent than trapping them in a closet or under a crate.
---
B. "It will be darling," Sharon says, smiling. "Do it." Despite the honeyed words of previous arguments, this time it's backed by steel. She smiles and casually knocks a cherub out of the air with a blast of rock salt, followed by a few vicious, but loving ('It's all about love,' she says. 'Jesus wants it that way.') strokes with the butt of her shotgun. "It's for morale, dear. Management thinks that it will help you all bond and realize that things aren't so bad here. You know, get you involved in some normal activities." She pauses, then whacks the little beast one more time. "...It twitched. Now, shoo. This box has all of the lace and paper you'll need. Even some gluesticks. But, please, be a dear and don't let Mac have too much paste. You know how he gets, bless his heart."
Yes, that's the official stance of Jorgmund. Mac can have a little glue, as a treat. On holidays. And, as promised, everything is there. Glue, pens, sparkly glitter, safety scissors, paper, and a load of candy message hearts, 'for inspiration'. There are even a few examples, addressed to Sam, to show the 'less fortunate' New Hires how to do it.
Of course, given that they're supposed to be doing it in between their regular chores and clearing out cherub corpses, Jorgmund doesn't exactly have high hopes. But an attempt is being made.
---
C. It was wheeled out from the darkest depths of collections. Large. Looming. Non-functional. It was only with much cajoling that they could even get Brainiac 5 to touch the thing, for reasons that become clear as soon as the computer boots up. It proudly proclaims itself to be property of Brainiac 5 and the Legion of Super Heroes, but not one that anyone here has ever been a member of.
They'd probably remember a computer dedicated to kissing, after all.
Yes, one of the public events planned for this year's Valentine's is finding the Perfect Smooching Partner, and Brainiac 5's Love Machine (Demands for rebranding were curtly refused) will help the world find their match... within the Rig, of course. When two people kiss, it tracks technique, passion, and the lighting of the brain's pleasure centers to rate their kiss on a scale of 1-100. Once everyone in a group has kissed at least one other partner, it collates the data collected and rearranges their images onscreen to show their true best match.
Security's already gotten involved and the only reason that the entire event hasn't been shut down is because there's money being passed around on who starts the next fight. Things have already gotten violent more than once and a Security officer's already been sent to Medical for a busted nose.
The New Hires aren't being forced to participate, but there's definitely a few very interested workers lined up, popping some breath mints, and straightening their shirts.
---
D. The banner reads "Speed Work-Appropriate Platonic Friendship/Networking" because, after all, relationships are forbidden by Jorgmund. Nevermind that half the crew is hooking up with each other, workers are expected to be married to the company, and the company is a jealous mistress. That doesn't stop some enterprising individuals from trying to make the most of the situation, as Mr. Sagittarius would undoubtedly cheerfully inform you if he could read these words. But since he can't, you don't have to imagine his smug little grin. Bonus.
Several tables have been laid out in rows, with lonely men and women seated at each one. These include several New Hires. The other side of the table seats include other workers, including several other New Hires, who get up and leave every eight minutes (Or ten posts), moving one seat down. The idea is that they'll take this time to bond with one another, find commonalities, and strike up a lifelong friendship. They've been offered a list of starter questions as possible starters, filled with corporate-approved humor that wouldn't make it into Reader's Digest.
One thing's clear, though. The people that haven't been forced into this, at least the Rig worker side anyway, are honestly extremely lonely people who are desperate for any connection that doesn't come from a plastic smile. After all, there's only about a thousand people on the Rig at any given time and many of them are stuck in jobs deep in the bowels of the machine that offer little chance for socialization. Even the workers that were married, grandfathered in before the harsher fraternization codes were put in place, rarely see their spouses or children aboard due to conflicting schedules.
Every now and then there's a gunshot from the background as someone takes another potshot at a cupid.
What: Valentine's Day Events
Where: The Rig
When: Valentine's Day
Warnings/Notes: Violence likely.
A. Cupids aren't as cherubic as they appeared in Renaissance-era artworks. The little bastards float with the bodies of babies, but the huge, flatly reflective grey eyes of a cave-dwelling monster and the teeth of a viperfish when they open their mouths to deliver a hideous, staccato cackle. They flit around in the air in clumsy bursts with all of the grace of a concussed mosquito, only remaining upright half the time, but twice as hard to catch. That doesn't change the pinpoint accuracy of their aim, however, as they open fire with arrows of pyrite.
That's another difference in the myths. They don't target people and make them fall in love. They target lovers, or people with crushes, shoot to wound, and feed. Dozens of them careen drunkenly through the halls of the Rig, searching for people who are a little too obvious about their unspoken desire for affection. When caught, they squall like babies, then try to take a chunk out of their captor with their vicious mouths, opening far wider than a normal baby should be able to manage. Fortunately, they don't seem to be more durable than most babies, though their appearance and cries are enough to put off many Rig workers from a solution more permanent than trapping them in a closet or under a crate.
B. "It will be darling," Sharon says, smiling. "Do it." Despite the honeyed words of previous arguments, this time it's backed by steel. She smiles and casually knocks a cherub out of the air with a blast of rock salt, followed by a few vicious, but loving ('It's all about love,' she says. 'Jesus wants it that way.') strokes with the butt of her shotgun. "It's for morale, dear. Management thinks that it will help you all bond and realize that things aren't so bad here. You know, get you involved in some normal activities." She pauses, then whacks the little beast one more time. "...It twitched. Now, shoo. This box has all of the lace and paper you'll need. Even some gluesticks. But, please, be a dear and don't let Mac have too much paste. You know how he gets, bless his heart."
Yes, that's the official stance of Jorgmund. Mac can have a little glue, as a treat. On holidays. And, as promised, everything is there. Glue, pens, sparkly glitter, safety scissors, paper, and a load of candy message hearts, 'for inspiration'. There are even a few examples, addressed to Sam, to show the 'less fortunate' New Hires how to do it.
Of course, given that they're supposed to be doing it in between their regular chores and clearing out cherub corpses, Jorgmund doesn't exactly have high hopes. But an attempt is being made.
C. It was wheeled out from the darkest depths of collections. Large. Looming. Non-functional. It was only with much cajoling that they could even get Brainiac 5 to touch the thing, for reasons that become clear as soon as the computer boots up. It proudly proclaims itself to be property of Brainiac 5 and the Legion of Super Heroes, but not one that anyone here has ever been a member of.
They'd probably remember a computer dedicated to kissing, after all.
Yes, one of the public events planned for this year's Valentine's is finding the Perfect Smooching Partner, and Brainiac 5's Love Machine (Demands for rebranding were curtly refused) will help the world find their match... within the Rig, of course. When two people kiss, it tracks technique, passion, and the lighting of the brain's pleasure centers to rate their kiss on a scale of 1-100. Once everyone in a group has kissed at least one other partner, it collates the data collected and rearranges their images onscreen to show their true best match.
Security's already gotten involved and the only reason that the entire event hasn't been shut down is because there's money being passed around on who starts the next fight. Things have already gotten violent more than once and a Security officer's already been sent to Medical for a busted nose.
The New Hires aren't being forced to participate, but there's definitely a few very interested workers lined up, popping some breath mints, and straightening their shirts.
D. The banner reads "Speed Work-Appropriate Platonic Friendship/Networking" because, after all, relationships are forbidden by Jorgmund. Nevermind that half the crew is hooking up with each other, workers are expected to be married to the company, and the company is a jealous mistress. That doesn't stop some enterprising individuals from trying to make the most of the situation, as Mr. Sagittarius would undoubtedly cheerfully inform you if he could read these words. But since he can't, you don't have to imagine his smug little grin. Bonus.
Several tables have been laid out in rows, with lonely men and women seated at each one. These include several New Hires. The other side of the table seats include other workers, including several other New Hires, who get up and leave every eight minutes (Or ten posts), moving one seat down. The idea is that they'll take this time to bond with one another, find commonalities, and strike up a lifelong friendship. They've been offered a list of starter questions as possible starters, filled with corporate-approved humor that wouldn't make it into Reader's Digest.
One thing's clear, though. The people that haven't been forced into this, at least the Rig worker side anyway, are honestly extremely lonely people who are desperate for any connection that doesn't come from a plastic smile. After all, there's only about a thousand people on the Rig at any given time and many of them are stuck in jobs deep in the bowels of the machine that offer little chance for socialization. Even the workers that were married, grandfathered in before the harsher fraternization codes were put in place, rarely see their spouses or children aboard due to conflicting schedules.
Every now and then there's a gunshot from the background as someone takes another potshot at a cupid.
Re: B.
To Dan, she probably sounds weirdly defensive.
"Huh. She came off kinda... pushy, with me." she says, referring to Sandra and putting it mildly. But Saturday supposes it wasn't her fault Saturday had arrived less then twenty-four hours after holding the first man she'd ever loved as he died.
no subject
He knows that the reason he gets treated so kindly wherever he goes is because it's difficult to meet such stubborn pleasantness and affability with meanness. The way he gets treated by someone isn't indicative of how they treat everybody. "I'm sorry she treated you that way. She ain't been anything but amiable when I've talked to her."
no subject
And it's become a status symbol; the rich don't need to read, don't even want to. Why do something yourself when you can command your invisible, uncomplaining servants to do it for you?
"I met Sandra right after my intake, so I might not've been in the best mood," she allows. "It was a rough landing."
no subject
It's a good reminder of how deeply different their worlds are. Dan's got no desire to visit Saturday's world, and more than that, the idea of a world where this massive handicap he's been living with, that's been one of the confluence of factors that keeps him destitute broke, is actually a mark of status in her world.
He shakes his head. "They don't really prime us for good first impressions, do they?"
no subject
"That makes more sense. You didn't seem like someone too rich to bother learning how t'read - we get them, you know. They come over to Touristville for a night on the wild side, then get pissed they gotta read a menu."
"And no, they do not." Her hands move remarkably quickly; she might be using a little of her extra speed. "Everything about this place... there's joints like this where I'm from. Gettin' caught by one's basically my worst nightmare - they're bad enough to work for if you're salaried, indentured... shit, you know?" If you're lucky, corp security shoots you dead right then and there. If you're unlucky, someone has questions, and it takes a little longer. And if god has decided to fuck you in particular that day, they don't kill you - because they have some other use for you. And you probably end up dead at the end anyway.
"You grew up on a farm? Like a real one? I got to pet a cow, once."
no subject
There have been times where, if he weren't so excellent at sabotaging himself, he might have been able to maintain steady work and find stability, but Dan's a champion marksman at shooting himself in the foot.
"The way I see it, this is better than jail is in my world, so if I've got to be stuck listening to folks telling me what to do, might as well be a place where the bathroom stalls got doors." He stamps some hearts on a valentine. "But yeah, a farm. Nothing like all this here. We had cows, we had horses, we had chickens and a goat. I miss them."
no subject
Jorg is closer to Ares on the sliding scale of people you don't want to fall into the hands of; if they'd been a joint like Aztechnology, they'd all be sitting neat and blind and limbless in their little cubbies, waiting to be drained for the company blood mages. She decides not to mention that; it would put a damper on the conversation, probably.
"There was a goat at the farm I pet the cow at, but she'd just had babies and didn't want to be bothered. No horses, some chickens - they're weird little birds, yeah? And a pig!" she says brightly. "It was a lot bigger then they look in picture books."
yooo sorry about the delay!
He grins at her enthusiasm. "Most farm animals are animals. Pigs are beasts. We had one that was I-swear-to-God big as our dining room table and heavy to boot. Never had a pig again after it bit off my mom's finger."
i will never abandon you
It had decided that it didn't mind her, lowering its great head back into the wallow with a dismissive snort. But she'd always wondered how near a thing it had been.
"It was a cool trip. Was it fun, growing up on a farm? Seems like it would have been a lot of work, though."
no subject
He stacks the peanut butter cups into a tower.
"Lots of work. I loved it, but I reckon it ain't for anyone." He would have happily spent his mortal life living on a farm and tending the land and the livestock if not for the bloody turn everything took on him.
no subject
"Oh, these aren't bad... why'd you leave it behind, then? If that ain't too personal." It's hard to make small talk on the Rig; you never quite know when you're going to step on something that really hurts.
no subject
"Nothing's too personal." Plenty of things are too personal, but when things get personal, Dan just lies. He doesn't owe Saturday, or anyone else in the universe, the truth about anything. "My family didn't pay no taxes on the land, so one day the government came with guns to politely escort us off the only home I ever did know. I ain't settled down anywhere since then."
The months on the Rig is the longest he's ever been in one place throughout his adult life.