ph_logs | Open Post July

Open Post July - Early August

Who: John Crichton & Open
What: Catch-all open post for the weird spaceman
When: Covering July and early August (time is soup)
Where: All over town, noted in prompts
Warnings: It's Crichton, anything could happen. I'll warn as needed.

Shouting in the Library

CT told him he could find Gaeta in the library. It seemed easy enough at the time. Only later on did Crichton realize he should have asked what the guy actually looks like. But, not to fear, Crichton has a pioneering solution to this issue. It goes like this:

"Hey! Is there a Gaeta in the house?!"

Yes, Crichton did just walk into the middle of the library and shout that at the top of his lungs. He's a great detective, isn't he?

He's one more stab away from making crabby patties
[Featuring Ody the crab from the TDM]

"OH, COME ON!!" Crichton screeches as the blunt edge of Ody's knife pokes into his big toe. Outraged, he slaps the book he's reading down onto his lap to see his apparent mortal enemy, in red sea crab form, retracting the knife and preparing to move in for another strike.

"I'm not doing anything to you! Your nest is all the way on the other side of the beach for Christ's sake! Can't you go pick on someone else for once?"

He just wanted to lay out in the sun, get a tan, and read his book. Was that too much to ask?

Prepare to get that Dirt Man song stuck in your head

He'd scoffed, at first when, he heard the tale of the dirt man. That's ridiculous, right? But the paper even wrote about it so... okay, fine, better safe than sorry. Thus, he has put dirt beneath his pillow like a good and obedient citizen. But no one told him he wasn't supposed to react to a weird guy looming over him in the dark reaching under his pillow.

"What the--?!" he screams out in shock as he wakes to a pair of glowing eyes in his Oak & Iron bedroom at close to three in the morning. "Get the hell out of my room!"

He's still a little groggy so the details are about as clear as mud but the next thing he knows, he's getting dragged down the stairs and out the door into the night, hollering and struggling the whole way of course.

Does anyone in the Oak & Iron, or elsewhere, want to mount a rescue attempt? Or, maybe Crichton is about to meet a new friend and accomplice in dirt prison tonight.

Wildcard
Have an idea? Throw it at me. Bring the chaos.

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"..."

Over by the circulation desk, a curly-haired guy with a wooden leg is going through a very complicated, very distinct series of facial expressions.

One: What the frak.

Two: Who the frak.

Three: Oh, you have got to be frakking kidding him, is that the idiot from the cult sacrifice.

Gaeta takes a deep, fortifying breath, puts on his blandest customer-service face, and lifts a hand to get Crichton's attention. "Yes? Can I help you, sir?"

"Hey, There ya are." Crichton puts on his best boyish grin and hustles over to meet Gaeta with his hand offered out already.

At least his volume is back down to appropriate-for-indoors levels now. "CT told me I could find you here. Name is Commander John Crichton, I've heard great things."

"Oh?"

Okay, much as Gaeta hates to admit it, he is not immune to a smile like that. Sighing inwardly at his own predictability, he accepts the offered hand in a firm, professional shake, and lets his own smile grow a touch. "Pleasure to meet you properly, Commander. Lieutenant Felix Gaeta. What did CT mention about me?"

Crichton has a handshake to match. Clearly, he's had practice. "Ah, just call me Crichton. The title is civilian. I was an astronaut back on Earth, mission commander. Which brings me right around to why CT said I should talk to you. I hear you're a fellow space adventurer?"

Gaeta's eyebrows shoot upward. The customer-service face finally breaks to reveal something more genuine, and he chuckles, a little disbelieving.

"I am, yes," he says. "I'm -- not sure it might be the same kind of space travel as yours, if you're from Earth. But I served for seven years on the battlestar Galactica back home. What about you?"

"My story is... complicated." Always a good sign, right?

"I was an astronaut on Earth working for I.A.S.A., International Aeronautics and Space Administration that is, heading up the Farscape-One project. Was in the middle of a solo test flight when a wormhole opened up and dragged me in. I got shot out into the other side of space so far away no one knew what Earth was. You're lookin' at the guy who made first contact for my version of Earth." With a bang.

"I was lucky enough to cross paths with a living leviathan ship named Moya. Her crew pulled me onboard hoping I could help them escape from some baddies on their tail. We got away, and I became a full-time member of the crew. Haven't been back to Earth since. Not for lack of trying."

To his credit, Gaeta does not choke at the mention of a living spaceship, but it takes effort. Luckily, the convoluted loops of Crichton's story help to blunt some of his immediate repulsion; he even lets out a low whistle once Crichton reaches the end.

"Gods, that's a hell of a way to end up on permanent space assignment," he says, somewhere between impressed and sympathetic. "You might be the first Earther I've met who really knows what it's like to be out there. I don't think most of them have even gone past their moon yet."

"You're tellin' me," he laughs, but there's something dark under that lilting sound.

"I guess that's not too shocking. On my Earth, I was the first guy to get further than the moon. Beat my old man's record after all." Mentioning his father can't help but bring a stab of grief. He really isn't going to see Dad again, is he?

"It is nice to find someone who's been there. That's why I was so gung-ho about findin' ya. Now that I have, how about getting to know each other?"

A brief grin flashes across Gaeta's face. "I'd like that," he says. "I, ah -- "

He glances back toward the circulation desk.

"My shift's over at 1700 hours, but I could meet you at the Oak & Iron after that? Unless there's somewhere else you'd prefer," he's quick to add.

"Sounds perfect to me. That's my go-to spot for dinner most nights. You got a deal." He offers a hand out again for another shake. "Good to finally meet ya, but I'll go ahead and get out of your hair for now and let you work. See you tonight."

Good to his word, he'll be at the Oak & Iron right at 1700 hours holding a table for the two of them. He's ordered a drink while he waits, but it's just orange juice.

About five minutes later, Gaeta arrives. He smiles and lifts a hand in greeting as soon as he spots Crichton, but looks a little chagrined, too. Normally he's the early one.

"Hey, sorry I'm a little late," he says as he takes the chair across from him. He leans his cane against the edge of the table. "I'm, ah, not the fastest walker."

Quickly, he signals one of the waitstaff and orders a beer.

"Don't worry about it. I ain't been here too long." He asks for another glass of the OJ while they're putting in orders. It's expensive since it's an import, but damn if it doesn't hit the spot.

"I couldn't help but notice you had a bit of limp. Mind if I ask what happened?"

"Oh, uh, it's -- "

With a wry smile, Gaeta moves his right leg enough to tap the lower half against the table leg. Thunk: it resonates a bit, exactly like a flesh-and-bone limb shouldn't.

"I lost this leg a couple months before I got here. Enemy fire. Still getting used to it, a little."

Crichton's eyebrows raise a little but other than that he nods along in understanding. "That had to hurt like a bitch. I gotta say you move around pretty well for a guy still getting used to it. Sorry to hear that happened."

A touch of humor creeps into his expression. The guy is soldier, right? He might enjoy a bit of humor about it. "So... are pirate peg-leg jokes off the table?"

There's an incredulous beat of silence... and then Gaeta presses his lips together, smothering a laugh, and folds his arms atop the table.

"Depends," he says, as mild and straight-faced as he can. "Are they good ones?"

Hell yeah, that's the reaction he was hoping for. He's smirking even harder. "I don't promise quality, but I can guarantee quantity."

"Want me to time you?" asks Gaeta without missing a beat. "Fifteen pirate jokes or more in one minute and I'll get the next round."

This is ridiculous. Honestly, the only concrete excuse Gaeta can offer for putting up with it is that Crichton isn't too hard on the eyes. But, well... there's also an enormous difference between obnoxious and cruel; he can already tell Crichton isn't the latter. And sometimes you just need the laugh no matter where it comes from.

"Pff, you're on," Crichton says with the confidence of a man that knows no shame. "But it'll have top be orange juice for me. I'm in recovery and lookin' to keep it that way." For addiction, he means.

"Got your watch set?"

"No problem," says Gaeta easily, and with a flicker of something like understanding. Everything that happened after he lost his leg is... complicated. He still hasn't untangled whether all his morpha usage was for the pain, or if there might have been something else going on, too; honestly, at this point, he doesn't know if he needs to untangle it. But whatever it was, it brushed close enough to whatever Crichton's dealing with that Gaeta doesn't feel the need to ask questions.

Instead, smirking, he holds up his bare wrist like he's about to press an invisible timer. "In five, four, three, two..."

Crichton lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when Gaeta accepts it all without question. A knot in his chest loosens enough that his shoulders no longer feel pinched together.

Instead, he puts on his game face and prepares to fire off the first round of jokes. "Why don’t pirates go to strip clubs? Because they already have all the booty!" Like he said, they aren't quality.

[So I rolled a D20 to see how he'd do. Boy rolled a 19.]

"No." Gaeta's already groaning -- but laughing, too. "Gods, I regret this already -- "

But, dutifully, he starts holding up fingers, one by one, as the terrible jokes come flying. And they're flying fast; within forty-five seconds, Crichton's hit the fifteen-joke mark and still going strong.

Edited 2024-09-17 01:58 (UTC)

"Buckle up buccaneer, it's only getting worse from here." And it does. It really does. The jokes are groaners, some of them just barely passable as a pirate joke at all. Poop decks feature a lot. But, thankfully, Crichton tops out at seventeen. By that point, he's barely able to keep himself upright on the stool for how much he's laughing.

"Told you," he says between giggles. "Been saving those up."

"Oh my gods," is all Gaeta can say, strangled with laughter, his face buried in his free hand. "Horrible. Terrible. Why did I ask. How do you know that many."

He will never doubt you again, Crichton. And a bet's a bet: he waves down the bartender for the next round.

"I had a lot of alone time out in space. Had to keep myself busy somehow." You know, in between brewing his own bathtub gin (minus the bathtub) and teaching a mechanical sweeper bot how to hum Tchaikovsky.

"Worth it to see you laugh," he raises the glass he just received in a toast. "I like you, man. Cheers."

"Excuse me. You will lower your voice in the library or be removed from it." Siebren's voice is firm, his attention focused. Security he can do, as much as the simple work of library maintenance.

Wow, he hopes this isn't the guy he's supposed to be looking for. He looks like a walking wet blanket.

"All right, all right, don't get your britches in a bunch. I'm just lookin' for someone. You're not him, are you?"

Well. A floating wet blanket, barefoot, about half a foot above the ground, but yeah.

"No, I'm one of his coworkers. And I won't allow you to be a dick to him, barging in here and yelling." There's more than just a vague protectiveness there.

Crichton is looking confused now, not by the floating but by the insinuation that he's here to be a dick to Gaeta.

"What? I'm not here to yell at him, I'm just trying to find him without knowing what he looks like. CT says he's in the library a lot so..." he shrugs like this is all perfectly reasonable.

"He works here. What was I to expect, when you came into the library yelling?"

Siebren pinches the bridge of his nose, already getting a headache. "I believe CT would not send a threat here, but that's not nearly how you ought to have approached the matter."

"I get it. I'm sorry. But I'm not here to hassle him, I swear. Scout's honor." He puts his three fingers up in the Boy Scout salute.

"I heard he has experience flying in space. I do too, so I thought maybe we'd have some things in common to talk about."

"Is this when I mention that I was an astrophysicist, at one point? I spent time on the Horizon Lunar Colony and Lucheng's space station. It might not be the same sort of flight you're accustomed to, but I'm not a complete luddite."

He comes around from behind his desk, moving very smoothly. Mostly because he's, like, floating six inches off the ground.

"No shit? Me too." Pause. "The astrophysics part, I mean. Not the other stuff. But, if you were living on a space colony and a space station, then I'm thinking that means you come from a world tha's gotten a lot further along in traveling space than my Earth has."

Crichton tilts his head a little when he notices the fluidity of the movement. Yeah, he'll add that to the list of growing differences.

"It might also be a different world entirely. Mine is not a very kind Earth."

Siebren glances at his feet, then at Crichton. "Gravity manipulation. The result of very direct exposure to a micro black hole. Along with a traumatic brain injury of sorts that I still struggle with. The reason I do it all the time isn't to impress people, though, I promise."

"It probably is. I've run into a lot of people from different worlds. It's rarer to find one from the same place than the other way 'round." Rarer, but not impossible.

Oh, hey, he didn't have to ask. That's nice. (As if he wasn't asking with his eyes?)

"You got close to a... goddamn. I'm sorry it messed with your head, I really am, but I'm more impressed you're alive at all. How direct are we talkin' here?"

"Ow. Ow. Ow. Not the wings, for pity's sake, can I just--ow."

Deon's return to consciousness is slow as he's pulled over hill and fucking dale. He can feel blood dripping from a cut on his forehead. He must have hit a rock that knocked him out. He somehow manages to twist his ankle in the Dirt Man's grip and roll onto his belly as he's dragged along, after his ill-fated attempt to apprehend the foul fiend. Not even his enhanced monster strength can get him out of this one.

He sighs. "This would happen. 'Hello, Deon, would you like to try to do something good and get--get dirtnapped for your pains?' No, no I would not, but here I am--ow--smacking into every single obstacle on this island."

The manticore turns his head, sees Crichton, says "Oh, hello, there," far too cheerfully before taking a stick directly to the glasses. He growls and re-adjusts them on his face. Clearly the sanguine attitude is just a front for how deeply annoying he finds this.

He comes back to full consciousness after god only knows how long to find, despite his hopes that this could all be a bad nightmare, he really is being dragged by a rope around both ankles across what feels like this entire damn island--if the equivalent of a coarse gravel rugburn he's getting on his bare back is anything to judge by. Thank hezmana he chose to wear pants to bed tonight for once.

That casual hello prompts a snorts of amusement. Something tells him this is neither of their first time at the rodeo. "Pff, hi. Nice weather we're having tonight, huh?"

It's dark and Crichton's vision doesn't do a lot for him in the low light so, at best, he's only able to make out the general shape of Deon's features. What he's seeing definitely isn't scanning as human. Did he hear something about wings? That didn't sound like Phil or Cerrit...

"I'd offer you a hand, but I'm a little tied up right now." Literally. "Commander John Crichton. Who am I speaking with?"

Deon snorts a little at Crichton's crack about the weather. "Nicer than I've known for a while. Deon Wilson, erstwhile of--for Fourth's sake," he snaps as his knee slams into a rock. "Erstwhile of Bavan, and prior to that, Johannesburg."

One of those places will sound familiar to Crichton. The other will definitely not.

"Although I must say, I wasn't expecting to end up here." He grimaces. "'Here' as in Marrow Isle, though 'here' as in 'being dragged along by a cryptid' as well." Weirder things have happened to him, which is why he's seemingly so unbothered by it, aside from the annoyance.

"That's a new curse I ain't heard yet." Sorry, he doesn't mean to laugh but he's got the humor of a six-year-old and he can't resist some good slapstick.

"Pleasure to meet you, circumstances notwithstanding. Heard of Johannesburg, but the other place doesn't sound familiar. Just for the record, If you're expecting me to list out all the different places I've ended up in the last few years, it's gonna take a while. Here is just the latest in a long list of strange new frontiers. That goes for the island and this situation, too."

He lifts his head up, trying to peer into the dark despite how useless that is. "Hey, does it feel like we're angling down now?"

"It's...I probably shouldn't say that, really," Deon mutters.

"I'd be surprised if you'd heard of Bavan, to tell you the truth. Especially given that you neither look like me nor seem to express a primal fear of those who look like me." Back there, you're either a human or a monster, and that's the difference between being lunch and....person who eats lunch.

"Hang on." Deon squints, thankful for his manticore night vision. "It appears so. We really are being dragged over hill and dale."

"I'm going to have to take your word for it right now because I got great vision but it still ain't dark vision." He is squinting a little harder into that darkness, though, trying to make sense of the odd extra appendages. At least now he knows he's not imagining things.

"Whatever you look like, I doubt it's going to be that scary to me. I'll be impressed if you do, but you haven't even threatened to bite me yet, so you're missing the bar." This sounds like a joke. It is not actually a joke. Deon isn't the first or even second cannibal in his life.

"You know the real bitch of it is I had dirt under my pillow and everything. I don't know what I did wrong. You?"

Deon sighs. "I tried to apprehend him. I thought that surely I'd be able to do it. It turns out that I was quite mistaken. Ow!" Yeah, that rock was gonna bruise.

"He doesn't take kindly to being attacked, it seems. Who knew?" Deon, is that sarcasm?

"Are you an enforcer?" That's supposed to be Crichton's job, but apparently apprehending this dirtball isn't a priority. Or, maybe it's that it isn't a possibility.

"Yeah, who knew? Thing is, I don't take lightly to people reaching at me while I sleep, either. Tends to make me a little jumpy." Which is more than fair in his opinion! Dirt Man is the asshole here.

"Should we be coming up with an escape plan right about now? I've already died once recently, I'd really rather not go for the high score. Again."

"No," Deon replies, a little chagrined, "just a concerned citizen. I really thought that I could stop him."

When Crichton mentions dying, he snorts. "I'm not keen to die again, either. Clearly a direct attack doesn't work." He eyes the way they're being dragged. "Surely we can get these ropes undone with a little bit of effort. Shame my tail's got a stinger and not a blade. Not all that useful for cutting them."

"You have a tail and a stinger?" Christ, his mental image of this guy is all over the map. That's it. Next time he gets a free wish he's asking for night vision.

"I still got my boots on. Maybe if I can kick 'em off my feet can slip the rope. These are my only pair, though, so you better help me find them again later."

There comes the sound of leather stomping on leather. And then... one boot slips off, then the other. Thank goodness for socks, or the air might be distinctly more onion-y now.

"Let's see if this...ha! Yes!" One foot slips free. "Okay... not sure where I'm going from here..."

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Open Post July - Early August

Library

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time skip!

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cw: addiction

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good place to fade this one?

Library

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dirted man

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