at the crossroads a second time, make the devil change his mind

[metallonkardia]

Who: John Connor and you.
What: Avoiding the T-X, scoping out the barge, running into people!
When: Friday-ish.
Where: Various locations about the barge.
Warnings: Swearing? Creepy atmospheric stuff?
& Notes: Trying my hand at a day in the life post! Any format you like is good with me.

Comments

Level +1.

[metallonkardia]

The upper warden-only areas continue to strike John as almost too surreal to come face to face with; he's avoided the pool with prejudice, the bar with only slightly less vehemence. (He's kept clear of even the door to the next level up and the CES.) This is only his second trip up, grudgingly attempting to acclimate. It shouldn't be this unsettling - it's not as if he was born after Judgment Day; he remembers the world the way it was, this isn't some alien landscape. He knows, factually, that there are bases and strongholds far away from the front lines and nuclear craters that have much more advanced and comfortable living standards than what they struggle through in the desert. Perhaps it's just that he feels like he's betrayed his comrades somehow, being the only one to benefit from this strange miracle. He tips over an empty glass on the bar top, fingers against the rim, and wonders.

Lower deck stairwell.

[metallonkardia]

Between the lights failing and the door issues, John's been keeping to the stairs. It's not the most brilliant of ideas considering his injuries, but he's skeptical of elevators even on good days. Stairs it is.

... And then the door to Level 5 refuses to open, just as all the lights flicker and die.

Something creaks below him, and whispers start on the other side of the door. Only faintly exasperated, John steps back enough so that if someone comes barreling through the door it doesn't hit him, and then shines a flashlight down into the dark chasm of the stairwell.

Lower deck stairwell.

[sixthanimorph]

Oh hey, you're not the only one who uses the stairs as a rule John. David's avoided the elevators from day one, not because of any skepticism about them, but because they bring back a memory he'd really rather not remember.

He's not venturing out too much these days - with everything on the Barge seemingly going to shit, he's holed himself up in his room and only ventures out for food and showers. Plainly it's the former that he ventured out for now, since he's wearing a backup and judging from the smell he grabbed himself today's dinner to go.

David doesn't notice John's presence yet, mostly because even before the lights go dead they're flickering, and he's got the weird feeling he's being watched. When the lights die he curses and gropes for the nearest wall, looking a bit at a loss as to what to do next.

[metallonkardia]

Hearing someone swear and the tell-tale scuffs of a corporeal body, John stills to listen closer. He doesn't try to point the flashlight's beam at them, aware of how anxiety-inducing a searchlight effect can.

"Are you a ghost or a person?" A dull inquiry. The barge is going to have to try harder to fuck with John's fear, really.

[sixthanimorph]

The voice cutting through the darkness catches David completely by surprise, and he has a bad moment where he almost morphs, thinking it might be the guy who attacked him in the CES. Then logic takes over and reminds him this guy sounds different. Faintly familiar, but not the guy who attacked him. He doesn't relax, but he's not gonna attack just yet either.

"Person, last I checked." he responds dryly.

Dining hall.

[metallonkardia]

Food is still wholly mysterious - he's really got to get his room re-arranged so he can sort out his own shit and not continue to have this issue - but it's not like he can avoid it. Speaking to the eternally abused state of John's sense of self preservation, it's not even the T-X's implicit threat to assassinate him while eating that makes him want to avoid having to bother, but the fact that most things still make him sick, and he has to sit here staring awkwardly at whatever's being served, picking at it and willing his system not to reject real food. And so he's there, sitting with his back to a wall and eying his plate a bit like it might suddenly come to life and stage a revolt.

Dining hall.

[systmadmin]

CLU settles in a seat that's somewhat near John, then neatly sets his plate down on the table. He doesn't pay any particular attention to the User, at first. Instead--after a cursory scan of the immediate area--his gaze rests on his food with a measure of firm weariness. As if this entire process is an unpleasant chore to him.

Then, after awhile, his eyes shift upward, and he silently observes the way John stares at his own plate with almost the same amount of apprehension.

His tone, when he finally speaks, is level. "Terrible, isn't it?"

[metallonkardia]

It doesn't take long for John to recognize CLU - he'd mentioned the T-X to Sarah, so John had (of course) looked up his transmission records. (Yes, he immediately recorded and sifted all of his mother's records when he arrived, because it's not paranoia when the machine is actually after you.) He hasn't done much besides skim, though, so he's got no idea what this guy's about. Interesting.

John cracks a slightly rusted half-smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I can't tell."

[systmadmin]

Generally CLU wouldn't spend much time here; mealtime meant get in, get food, get out. But he'd been locked out of his room--the door had malfunctioned--for twelve hours, now, and so he didn't have much choice but to stick around in places he didn't want to be.

So he studies the User a brief moment, then answers with, "Oh?" An encouragement to elaborate a bit more.

On deck.

[metallonkardia]

The burned leaves and ash falling from the - what, the sky? - the ceiling of reality is unsettling at best, but to John, it's perversely familiar. He'd avoided it, expecting it to disturb him and pull him back to those first nightmarish years... but he feels settled, out here. Arms resting against the railing, looking out into the abyss of wherever the fuck they are. His thoughts drift even while his senses stay anchored with a rusted-closed grip to his surroundings; outside time itself. Fucking amazing.

Re: On deck.

[batmanschmatman]

Dick had been heading back to his room from the CES when he spotted John on deck, and actually seeing him in person is just as jarring - if not more so - as it had been to hear him talk. He's been here long enough that people showing up with identical faces shouldn't be something that bothers him anymore, but the fact is, he misses Bruce like crazy and someone showing up who looks like him but isn't actually him feels profoundly unfair. And it certainly doesn't help that this is definitely not Bruce. The face and voice might be the same, but the rest of him - the posture, hair, clothing, he's almost certainly armed - is distinctly different. Preston, back when he'd been around, had looked slightly more similar.

Still. It's strange, and sort of hard to see, but after a long moment of hesitation, he approaches, intending on apologizing for the mistake. He's still shorter than John, and dressed casually, sneakers, jeans, and a worn out navy blue sweatshirt over a t-shirt.

"Hi."

[metallonkardia]

He doesn't move when he notices someone coming over to him, but there's a slight sense of his attention shifting - even in this seemingly relaxed pose, there's a weight to him that speaks of awareness. John looks at him without turning around, making eye contact but not responding verbally. It's acknowledgement, maybe even an invitation - Well? Go on.

[batmanschmatman]

That... is more freakishly like Bruce, which isn't really helping the awkwardness of this situation. He manages a not entirely forced small smile, meeting his gaze levelly.

"Dick Grayson. I wanted to apologize again for the uh, misunderstanding earlier."

Anywhere your dark heart desires.

[metallonkardia]

[ It shall be made so. ]

Level +2, in the future from now...

[to_be_caprican]

Having recently experienced the best twelve hours he's had since on the Barge-- essentially near coma-levels of dreamless sleep-- Gaius is still looking a little bewildered at being awake. His arms are bundled about himself as he follows John Connor up and up to the mysterious heights of Warden City, dressed in a mix of pinstripe and denim and cotton. There's a part of him that isn't quite present, distracted thoughts somewhere else. But he isn't inattentive.

Nor has he been divested of his ability to be irritating.

"You're sure it's allowed?" he asks, for the second time, gaze raking wary around them both. "I've a perfect score thus far, despite temptation. Hate to miss out on a 'good behaviour' clause."

[metallonkardia]

And for the second time, John answers him - though slightly skewed.

"What'd I tell you about chilling the fuck out?"

There's a cadence to his voice even when he's taking the piss out of someone; it's almost mellow. None of this weird shit has done much to faze him, aside from Sarah's scare the other morning. (Left her fucking door open. Christ.)

"You're stuck in that room too much."

[to_be_caprican]

"Hence the excursion, I take it."

Untangling his arms around himself in a concerted effort to seem at somewhat chilled the fuck out, Gaius has, by now, gotten used to not taking this particular sort of criticism personally. Give him a glass of ambrosia and a cigarette and he's fine. Give him a rehab boat with ghosts that bang on his door, lock him out of his room and flicker the lights, and you get a bundle of nerves in a nice suit.

And for all that the ghosts appear to be intangible and not very intimidated by sidearms, it's not a terrible thing, to have the protection of the Connors. Just psychologically, anyway.

"It's a good room."