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goneawayworld2020-05-05 07:05 pm
piper90npcs) wrote in goneawayworld2020-05-05 07:05 pm
Entry tags:
"Training" [open]
Who: Lubitsch and anyone
What: NPC question-asking
Where: The Training Gym
When: A few days into their captivity, after the sheetcake meetup.
Warnings/Notes: cw: suicide/war violence in the thread with Saturday, forgot to put the cw: in the comment subject. Also, feel free to go with action or prose and I'll match.
[It is days before they can get Lubitsch to actually do his damn job. After one excuse after another and a faked ass injury "however can I train when I've pulled a glute?" he's finally hit the impenatrable wall of "or else," and so here he is, finally in to start picking up his schedule rotation.]
[He looks at them all, milling about the training area like a lot of superpowered arseholes and the fact that they're one thin shock collar away from tearing the walls down like tissue paper is not lost on him. It inspires the same feelings you have when seeing some majestic beast of the savanna, night-stalking terror of all that prances, in a small cage in a road-side zoo. ("And over here we have the Unfraggable Crunk, the strongest there is...and for $450 you can get a picture of him being patted on the head by your small, sticky child.")]
[Some terrible, unfunny cosmic joke, this whole thing. They should all be off in other universes fighting zombies or charming small creatures or starring in crashing, loud, summer popcorn flicks, what a fucking waste.]
[After being deposited at the door by two guards, the British soldier stomps in. He has a soldier's bearing, shoulders up, body liquid and stiff all at once. He looks like he's in his mid to late twenties, but the sour expression makes him look older. He takes on a drill sergeant's voice, in mimicry of a highly respected drill sergeant he once knew, as he yells loudly:]
Alright, you bumholes, listen up! As of this moment, the time to knit doilies and play with dollies is officially over! You thought Planker was bad? Well you're dead fucking wrong, you puke-faced, snot-nosed -
[And he goes back to the door, still shouting.]
- gurgling infants, and today is the day you maggots learn to stop dribbling all over yourselves -
[He peeps his head outside.]
- because I will beat the weakness out of - oh thank fuck, the guards are gone. [His tone immediately changes to be far more genial. Quiet. Even a little gentle, despite the salty language that follows. His shoulders relax.] And here I was worried that when I did this Jorgmund would have their hand so far up my arse it'd make a Muppet blush.
[Far calmer, far more reasonable he says:]
Seeing as they're a bunch of arseholes in a trenchcoat standing on each other's shoulders and pretending to be human, you can expect them to try to stop up every meat grinder they see with your bloody corpses, so if any of you need actual training you can't get from each other, I'm willing to do it. Black ops, firearms, melee weapons, hand to hand blah blah and fucking blah, I've done it -- during the apocalypse, I might add - and I can maybe teach it. Maybe.
Don't actually know, haven't tried, but unlike some small-dicked gorillas I don't need to name I can probably teach it with actual instructions and without screaming my head off, which is automatically a step up.
But if not, I'm going to fuck off on company time and do absolutely nothing.
[He gives them a big enthusiastic thumbs up at that, then pulls out a comic book hidden in a pocket of his black cargo pants, climbs up on some stacked gym mats, kicks up his legs, and starts reading. If any of them ask questions, he won't stop reading, but he will at least answer. And if they ask for help with training, he might actually give it. And he won't suck as bad as Planker.]
What: NPC question-asking
Where: The Training Gym
When: A few days into their captivity, after the sheetcake meetup.
Warnings/Notes: cw: suicide/war violence in the thread with Saturday, forgot to put the cw: in the comment subject. Also, feel free to go with action or prose and I'll match.
[It is days before they can get Lubitsch to actually do his damn job. After one excuse after another and a faked ass injury "however can I train when I've pulled a glute?" he's finally hit the impenatrable wall of "or else," and so here he is, finally in to start picking up his schedule rotation.]
[He looks at them all, milling about the training area like a lot of superpowered arseholes and the fact that they're one thin shock collar away from tearing the walls down like tissue paper is not lost on him. It inspires the same feelings you have when seeing some majestic beast of the savanna, night-stalking terror of all that prances, in a small cage in a road-side zoo. ("And over here we have the Unfraggable Crunk, the strongest there is...and for $450 you can get a picture of him being patted on the head by your small, sticky child.")]
[Some terrible, unfunny cosmic joke, this whole thing. They should all be off in other universes fighting zombies or charming small creatures or starring in crashing, loud, summer popcorn flicks, what a fucking waste.]
[After being deposited at the door by two guards, the British soldier stomps in. He has a soldier's bearing, shoulders up, body liquid and stiff all at once. He looks like he's in his mid to late twenties, but the sour expression makes him look older. He takes on a drill sergeant's voice, in mimicry of a highly respected drill sergeant he once knew, as he yells loudly:]
Alright, you bumholes, listen up! As of this moment, the time to knit doilies and play with dollies is officially over! You thought Planker was bad? Well you're dead fucking wrong, you puke-faced, snot-nosed -
[And he goes back to the door, still shouting.]
- gurgling infants, and today is the day you maggots learn to stop dribbling all over yourselves -
[He peeps his head outside.]
- because I will beat the weakness out of - oh thank fuck, the guards are gone. [His tone immediately changes to be far more genial. Quiet. Even a little gentle, despite the salty language that follows. His shoulders relax.] And here I was worried that when I did this Jorgmund would have their hand so far up my arse it'd make a Muppet blush.
[Far calmer, far more reasonable he says:]
Seeing as they're a bunch of arseholes in a trenchcoat standing on each other's shoulders and pretending to be human, you can expect them to try to stop up every meat grinder they see with your bloody corpses, so if any of you need actual training you can't get from each other, I'm willing to do it. Black ops, firearms, melee weapons, hand to hand blah blah and fucking blah, I've done it -- during the apocalypse, I might add - and I can maybe teach it. Maybe.
Don't actually know, haven't tried, but unlike some small-dicked gorillas I don't need to name I can probably teach it with actual instructions and without screaming my head off, which is automatically a step up.
But if not, I'm going to fuck off on company time and do absolutely nothing.
[He gives them a big enthusiastic thumbs up at that, then pulls out a comic book hidden in a pocket of his black cargo pants, climbs up on some stacked gym mats, kicks up his legs, and starts reading. If any of them ask questions, he won't stop reading, but he will at least answer. And if they ask for help with training, he might actually give it. And he won't suck as bad as Planker.]
no subject
She tilts her head, a thought occurring to her. "Does anything new come out of the Stuff? Like - new people, who are actually people, who can be reasoned with? Or... like what is the deal, there? An' does Jorg actually understand the Stuff is reaching across realities?"
Another thought occurrs to her, and she goes a little pale. "Unless, shit, we're the thing made by the Stuff an' we're reflecting other people's thoughts and ideas - Fuck, is that why Jorg - ?"
Saturday is staring down the barrel of a minor existential crisis and she doesn't like it.
no subject
I know people. Don't tell anyone this or I'm looking down the tail end of a punishment just as bad as one of yours, but word gets around. People know people who know people in the labs. There's been mention of things like "dimensional resonance" and "rifts" and all that when it comes to you. Something they can read off you all, just like the actual real dimensions folding in and out. There's a chance one or two of you might be New but it's...sounded almost universal.
[He bites his lip.]
The thing with the New is...if you were, I don't think you'd be here. To them, this is treating you like people. Sort of. If you were New, you'd be in some lab somewhere in the Livable Zone, and they'd be showing you much less...hospitality. The only ones of you that likely have to worry about that are some of the robots or more alien. Easier for them to rationalize they're not people and when they're willing to treat the humans or similar-to-humans like this...
[He looks very thoughtful at that. Is it regret, perhaps over someone New he didn't save? Is it something else, maybe mention of the Livable Zone?]
But if you were New they would want to know how you tick because of the ties to the Stuff. Aliens and super-people and all that, even if you got changed by Stuff, they understand that more. They're interested in people being made - and what they're made of. It sounds like they understand enough about the dimensional nonsense to at least be able to tell the difference.
[That kind of existential crisis is not something any of them should have to go through if it's not the truth of their situation.]
But you're right, there are people made from it. We call them the New. Some are...strange. You have to be careful because they're able to talk, interact, seem like they're like everyone - right up until they unhinge their jaw and there's a whole lot of fucking teeth.
[It's the truth, much as he wishes he could stay 'no, they're all harmless.' They're not all the Found Thousand. They're not all...]
Others are just people. They might have powers, they might look as different as some of you. But they're people like you. Normal people with thoughts and feelings of their own, that came out of nothing - or out of someone. Thoughts given life and then having thoughts of their own, becoming their own people the second they reify. Can even reify Stuff themselves, which proves they have consciousness. You have to be careful around the New. But treat them all like monsters and it'll be cruel, not careful.
[A pause.]
It's why I quit, before I was...convinced to come back here. Because of what they wanted to do.
no subject
"Okay. So, if they can talk, let 'em; real people can come out of the Stuff which means some will be okay. Understood." That much she can be certain of, even if the rest is - kind of overwhelming. Though it is nice to know she isn't someone's hallucination.
"You said not to tell anyone, an' I won't if you mean it. But the others should know - most of 'em are decent people, hero-types, an' the more they know the better choices then can make in the field. 'Cause it's gonna come up. That's just the way of things."
She sits back. "So, can I spread it around in that sense? I don't think anyone here wants to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it."
The Jorg stuff isn't worth addressing, as absolutely nothing about their behavior shocks or surprises her; he could likely see it in her face when he explained. Corps is corps, even on the other side of reality.
no subject
[Decides Jorgmund knows him well enough that they'd know he'd blab, and that they're so secure in their power and control that they probably don't even care.]
Fuck it. Go ahead and tell them. You can even say it was from me.
[He's made his distaste for Jorgmund clear and he knows that means they might be more liable to trust what he has to say. Which is important when he's actually telling the truth.]
They need to know the truth about the New. [He looks down at his hands, expression inscrutable.] Just people, that's all.
no subject
She means the New and New Hires, but Lubitsch can come along if he likes. She sits back on her heels a bit, then decides to ask a somewhat more dangerous question.
"So. Gettin' the impression you don't like our world-devouring worm overlords. Which makes me wanna ask, for the sake of an honest assement..." How to put this? Hmm. "D'you reckon Jorg actually knows what they've got with this batch? Who we are, and what it makes us capable of? Or are we not the first class of new hires to feel that way?"
What, in other words, are their odds?
no subject
Forged in the fire. You find that? You'll survive it. Especially since we managed and all we had was guns and many delightful and persuasive munitions.
When it comes to Jorgmund, understanding what they've got on their hands, they might have a sense of powers and things with their scans, but big picture?
[He leans in closer, dropping the volume of his voice.]
It might take some time? But they're going to get knocked arse over elbows before they ever see what hit them.
[He has faith. He can be surprisingly hopeful, despite the situation he's in.]
no subject
There's a certain light in her eye when she grins.
"You'll know it when it happens."