Ricki Tarr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rickitikitarr) wrote2015-03-08 10:47 am
rickitikitarr) wrote2015-03-08 10:47 am
1. video
[Ricki Tarr, latest inmate arrival, is still getting his feet under him. He's been on board for a little while now, but let's face it, he's a field agent from the 1970s, getting used to graphical user interfaces of his messenger has put up a bit of a roadblock in terms of his making contact.
By the time he's confident enough with the flimsy, cheeping little device to make a video post, his stomach is growling, so the very first message is a simple video shot.
It's poorly framed, he has no real idea of how to centre himself in the lens, and the light in his room is dark and low and terrible for any sort of filming. But from the dark, what's visible of his half-in-the-frame expression is still and steady;]
The first living creature to orbit the earth was a little Russian mongrel named Laika. She was a pretty thing, with a clever cast to her eyes and pricked up, pointed ears. On the fourtieth anniversary of the Bolshevik revolution they flung the little thing into the sky.
In fact, the Russians had been launching dogs into suborbital flights for a few years before, but none attained the notoriety or captured the imaginations of the world like little Laika. I was rather young when she was sent to space, but recall thinking the entire proceedings terribly inhumane.
The Soviets say that she was euthanized before her oxygen ran out. The British and Americans question whether that is true. The Russians question whether that questioning is deliberately spread propaganda meant to make them seem monstrous. In the time since, I think both sides have lost track of the original truth of the matter. But the question of her ultimate cause of death aside, I wondered whether she might be hungry, thirsty or afraid, uncomprehending of how it was possible to see stars all around her... I actually can't recall reading whether Sputnik 2 was like this ship, with windows or not. Laika may not have seen stars spinning in the sky, but I'm sure the sounds and sudden lack of gravity must have been rather frightening for such a little dog.
[His voice is low and steady, the pictures his paints are matter-of-fact and vivid. He accent is an odd, old one, London tempered by a childhood racing through Penang streets and other colonial holds. He takes his time with the story before concluding;]
Which is all to say, given the apparent flexibility of space and time on this vessel, if we see her while we're out here, I must simply insist that we make a stop.
By the time he's confident enough with the flimsy, cheeping little device to make a video post, his stomach is growling, so the very first message is a simple video shot.
It's poorly framed, he has no real idea of how to centre himself in the lens, and the light in his room is dark and low and terrible for any sort of filming. But from the dark, what's visible of his half-in-the-frame expression is still and steady;]
The first living creature to orbit the earth was a little Russian mongrel named Laika. She was a pretty thing, with a clever cast to her eyes and pricked up, pointed ears. On the fourtieth anniversary of the Bolshevik revolution they flung the little thing into the sky.
In fact, the Russians had been launching dogs into suborbital flights for a few years before, but none attained the notoriety or captured the imaginations of the world like little Laika. I was rather young when she was sent to space, but recall thinking the entire proceedings terribly inhumane.
The Soviets say that she was euthanized before her oxygen ran out. The British and Americans question whether that is true. The Russians question whether that questioning is deliberately spread propaganda meant to make them seem monstrous. In the time since, I think both sides have lost track of the original truth of the matter. But the question of her ultimate cause of death aside, I wondered whether she might be hungry, thirsty or afraid, uncomprehending of how it was possible to see stars all around her... I actually can't recall reading whether Sputnik 2 was like this ship, with windows or not. Laika may not have seen stars spinning in the sky, but I'm sure the sounds and sudden lack of gravity must have been rather frightening for such a little dog.
[His voice is low and steady, the pictures his paints are matter-of-fact and vivid. He accent is an odd, old one, London tempered by a childhood racing through Penang streets and other colonial holds. He takes his time with the story before concluding;]
Which is all to say, given the apparent flexibility of space and time on this vessel, if we see her while we're out here, I must simply insist that we make a stop.
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[She heads for the food line first, head down.]
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When they're in line, and she's had a moment to breathe, he leans in conspiratorially and says in his low voice, the one that invites people to join in the secret, that just lures with curiosity.]
Tell you a story about the kitchens in my last prison?
[It promises to be such a good one.]
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Sure.
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[Still all low and secretive and vivid.]
We had a rule. Whoever so as complained, he was the cook. So dinner time comes around and we all eat in choked silence every day, to cut down on the griping and whining, which we'd all had enough of by that point in the war. And one day, it's bad- and not just bad, but hot and bad, so spicy it'd melt your nose hairs if you tried to smell it. All of us are sitting there, choking it down, and my friend- comes in and takes a huge bite, because none of us have thought to warn him.
Anyways, he spits it right out, and says, 'holy fuck-' just like that. The cook, his head jerks up, thinking he has his out, and my poor friend, with a straight as face as you can imagine, and tears still streaming, amends, quick as he can;
'But good mind you, very good.'
[The last bit delivered just right, like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.]
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When he gets to the punchline, she snorts, clearly amused.]
So did he have to cook next?
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[He admits, which is maybe the silliest part of it all.]
I keep trying to puzzle it out, but no- nothing at all, absolutely no idea.
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Man.
The cook in my old prison would've made him. -- Actually, no, I bet she wouldn't've, 'cause I don't think she would have let anyone else cook at all if she didn't have to.
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[Asking as they're served- and it does look appetizing. In the end, he finds he doesn't mind so much that it does.]
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[She turns and starts walking towards a random table with some bench space.]
I mean, she was okay, I guess. Fucking temperamental, though; if you insulted her shit, you were gonna get it.
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What was her special? Your version of our tinned cabbage?
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[Eating her spaghetti now. Yum.]
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