come_sailaway | MARCH OPEN LOG

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MARCH OPEN LOG

[a soft chime of unplaceable music at 7 AM sharp. Friday's voice going over the daily weather (it never changes) and the daily schedule (it barely varies, though Friday does mention a "welcome party" set for later in the month with increasing amounts of poorly restrained glee. the mic is passed so that the captain can make his usual announcement. after a minute, it is passed back, so that Friday can wish everyone a fun and fulfilling day.

it's easy to fall into routine, on the serena eterna.

the spirits, or whatever they are, seem to have calmed down. they are still there, of course, but the plates are carried to tables instead of thrown, and any movement of the furniture is the kind that comes from normal use. wonder what they were so upset about. maybe someone talked to them.

an unfamiliar face in the hall balks at how their legs stop working suddenly. new passengers seem to arrive every other day or so, and it's always the same exact process. did you keep your lei?

the sun is shining. the air is warm. the sea is placid as a lake. you never meant to end up here. you certainly don't want to be here.

but, you can try to make the best of it.]

[ooc note: if any character decides to do some more than casual investigation of a location, be sure to ping the mod! there may be hidden treats! or hidden tricks! or maybe nothing! the best kind of prize is a SUR-PRISE!]

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Ava knows what's meant by the question, she's used to all manner of reactions to her abilities and can't deny she did attempt to provoke one. Mostly for her own amusement, and a bit to distract the woman from worrying so much.

But she watches another plate float by between them, peers at it, and hums. "I think it's called osso bucco. Anyway, the food hasn't killed anyone yet, so you're probably fine."

Nope, mission failed, her jaw is right back on the floor.

"I ⁠—" ...have no idea what to say here, is how that sentence probably would have continued, but instead Clarke is gaping like a fish out of water for a good few seconds longer. This shouldn't be that surprising, what with the swirling suspicion of

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Nope, mission failed, her jaw is right back on the floor.

"I ⁠—" ...have no idea what to say here, is how that sentence probably would have continued, but instead Clarke is gaping like a fish out of water for a good few seconds longer. This shouldn't be that surprising, what with the swirling suspicion of <i<>other forces at work she'd come to blame for their upheaval, but it's so entirely different getting stuck on an idea as opposed to seeing it.

"...what's osso bucco? How did you do that?"

"I actually do not know. Something fancy, maybe Italian," Ava shrugs, because she's never really partaken in a fine dining experience and so all she really knows are the names of various dishes. And the ghosts aren't really answering her, but at least nothing corrects her mangled pronunciation.

"I fought somebody in an overly pretentious restaurant once, giant chandelier. Think it got closed because the owner was caught for shady black market tech deals, but also maybe health code violations. Weird weasel looking man. Anyway. Point being," Ava steps closer, herself and a plate simply passing through each other as if neither seemed to care. "I do this rather easily. It's how you speak or breathe or your heart beats. I just do."

She grabs for the next plate that goes by, a rather innocent looking soup. And holds it out to the woman. "Really, it's better to just eat than throw a fit over it like a child that hates broccoli."

Clarke won't even correct her mangled pronunciation. In fact, she's taking it as end-all-be-all fact, and committing it to memory. Together they will thoroughly butcher the names of Italian food — if she's ever able to get past the war crime against physics and probability that she just witnessed with her own two eyes.

Or is ever able to wrap her head around a majority of the things coming out of the other woman's mouth. It's not a new experience, being utterly confounded by different people, different cultures, and different realities. Even before being dragged through time and space, Clarke had the opportunity to experience at least four different niche pockets of culture among Earth's remaining populace, and got pretty good at flip flopping between socially acceptable forms of communication depending on who she was trying to negotiate with. Then on board: Friday tells her they've come here by means of magic her very first day, and as wild a notion as that seems, Clarke can't discount it. Nor discredit it. Tragically, that just happens to be one of the few areas of power and advancement that she's literally never encountered, and didn't think possible until magic slapped her in the face and slammed her into an overly soft bed in the middle of the ocean.

"I don't... hate broccoli." Let her flounder for a minute longer, then ultimately try to pull herself together, roll with the punches — and, yanno, the idea of people phasing through walls along with plates now.

"You just said yourself — you looked and saw nothing. It doesn't bother you not being able to see where the food you're eating is coming from? Who's making it, who's serving it — even how it's getting on the ship?"

"Of course I wonder, but ultimately knowing or not doesn't change the truth that I need to eat. And that if I don't eat, I don't have the energy to properly think or defend myself if necessary. So," Ava shrugs, dips a spoon into the broccoli and cheese soup, and slurps away.

"And anyway. It's good. My whole life was somebody else preparing my food, deciding what I eat, strict diet regimens. So maybe the whole mystery meat bothers me less, because at least now I have options..." Ava trails off, eyes trained on a bread basket floating by before snatching a roll. "And ultimately I'm not sure what good beating up the infrastructure really does."

Arguably, nothing Ava says regarding willingly depriving ones self of food is wrong. But the line between logic and stubborn are blurred from Clarke's perspective; she knows she needs to eat, and has hoarded packages of nuts in her room because something about the vacuum seal made her feel more secure than an open bowl. Also knows she eventually needs to sleep for more than two hours at a time. But neither the luxury of rest or a full stomach feel appropriately earned until she finds some sort of answers here.

Beating the infrastructure was just a temporary sidebar, and hey — it'd gotten her a second-hand anecdote about what was behind that food wall. Clarke will consider this a slight success.

"...It made me feel better."

It certainly did not, but carrying on to what she does best: poking at soft spots, digging her teeth into the meat of information people offer her, and issuing challenges.

"Your whole life under someone's control, and it doesn't bother you that the leash has just been passed someone — or something — else? All it takes is Italian food, and you're content with the fact you couldn't go home if you wanted to?"

Ava raises her brows in doubt, because the woman seems just as agitated as ever. The truth is, Ava could have easily taken the same stance, fighting back against the unknown with no intel and no strategy. Depriving herself of basic needs just to prove some sort of point to no real end. Might've, if she had arrived any sooner, in a far more desperate state of mind. Ava's no less paranoid now, but she's still the lingering shadow of a spy, the sort sent into situations where brute force has failed.

There's a spark of irritation, but Ava doesn't allow herself to take the bait. She's no dog. "If there's a leash, I'm not intending to choke myself upon it. All you're doing is weakening your mind and body, making yourself more vulnerable. Whatever is going on, I intend to survive. I nearly died a few weeks prior, slowly starving myself to death is an absolutely pathetic way to go."

"I died a few days ago. There are worse ways to go than starving."

She hadn't meant to fall into her own trap, or turn this into some sort of mortality pissing match. But Clarke's about ready to climb up those ghostly intangible walls, and sometimes the walls of composure slip back to reveal a simmering, snap-judgement eighteen year old beneath the blistered, peeling skin and doom & gloom flavored PTSD.

Survival, though. That's the name of the game and the end goal, isn't it? Give her a second to drag sharp breaths through her teeth and — decidedly disengage. Obviously the wall wasn't going to give up any secrets, and Clarke has no desire to butt heads against immovable infrastructure (publicly?) or other stubborn people.

"But I don't intend to do that either. I just want answers — things I can see with my own eyes, and that actually make an ounce of sense. And in the meantime, enjoy your soup."

"Well you didn't do a good job of staying that way," Ava points out. And she didn't say worse, just pathetic.

But she picks up on the shift in demeanor, wonders if this was what it must have been like for Bill to talk her down from the edge so many times. Ultimately she isn't all that concerned with whatever the angry young lady chooses to do, though.

"You shouldn't rely so much on your eyes," Ava suggests, a spin on her heel before she disappears, soup bowl and all.

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MARCH OPEN LOG

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