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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The sacrifices of the many aren't usually remembered once the goal is accomplished. [It sounds like he's talking about something else than spaceships, quite clearly so.]
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And besides, the words resonate.]
Ah, that's true of any fight. Be it building something or breaking it, so long as there's friction in the process there'll be a few unlucky bastards who get the worst of it.
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Some fights have more casualties than a dog, but it's got some symbolism to it. [...or whatever]
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What war?
[Personal, or the big one?]
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There was a second... but not a third, so far as I am yet aware.
[The third one, he thinks, was cold, but he's still keeping that part of his life a close secret.]
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Good to hear there's not gonna be a third one. [He lights his cigarette, then looks back into the camera.] James Darmody. Welcome to the Barge.
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[And he genuinely means it.]
What's it like, really, the whole Warden song and dance?
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There's wardens carryin' around plenty more pain than most inmates, and inmates who look like they could get a hug and be good for graduation.
[He shifts, and reaches for a glass of scotch off-screen. Takes a sip, then sits back again.] My warden's a good egg. I don't know how the fuck having him around is helping me any, but he deserves to get his deal.
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No kidding.
[That's a bit to think about.]
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There'd been a slight lie in his previous statement: he knows how having Gene around is helping him. But that's no business of anyone, sometimes not even Gene himself.]
What part of that surprises you?
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[He's interested in keeping talking, but about to say something he'd like to keep away from the ears of polite company.]
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[In some ways, it's as simple as that.]
Sure, there are ones here who seem nice enough on the first go around. Plenty of soft marks. Good kids, even.
[Predatory, fond, but ultimately dismissive language he will not use in public.]
But that's not what you're talking about?
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Ricki obviously isn't one of them, and his half-confession does more to make Jimmy like him than not. He hasn't spent a lot of time in prison, but he's spent plenty of time on the wrong side of the law.]
In prison, the only thing that separates the guards from the prisoners is a uniform and a paycheck. Here- I guess it's only circumstance and time.
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[More than the soft bed and warm food and whatnot, which he appreciates but isn't particularly swayed by.]
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When I died, I didn't expect to wake up at all. Bein' here, the last couple months... It's been quiet, at least. [More quiet than he's seen since 1917, even with the floods and ports.]
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[Ricki hasn't been in one city for more than a week in nearly four years. The idea of being trapped here is daunting in and of itself, even without the mayhem.]
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[Because Ricki got pinned down too, albeit in a POW camp, and all it's made him want to do since is never stop. It's fine, though, he doesn't dwell on it.]
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[He's still not sure he will, but wants to ask.]
Do you go down to the Ports?
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We didn't really get to choose, last time. Just woke up there.
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