1. video

[rickitikitarr]

[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.

Comments

[rickitikitarr]

[He gives Cain the first pin, surrendering when he probably could have broken out of it, if his life had actually depended on it- an easy fold. Pride isn't actually that big of a thing with Ricki.]

You know all about me, but I don't know anything about you.

[Actually, of course, Cain knows nothing about Ricki, but most people will believe it reflexively if you tell them they do.]

[anewlanguage]

Sure you do. You know I like guns and-

[He lets Ricki up, resets their 'round' by backing off a step or two]

-wrestling.

[rickitikitarr]

And?

[And again, he jumps into it with him, a little more lucid this time, letting himself be a little more controlled, a little more skilled.]

[anewlanguage]

And I used to use 'em to kill people.

[He's studying him as they trade blows. This time, he works to take them back to the ground]

[rickitikitarr]

Professional?

[He asks, then puts his shoulder into it, tries to get him down this time.]

[anewlanguage]

Yeah. But retired-

[He goes down with a grunt, but this time goes fast and mean for the pressure point inside Ricki's thigh. Go for a man's inner legs and they tend to flail a bit, he's found, because it's unexpected in a fight.]

[rickitikitarr]

[It's there- but it only last a split second and then he's rallied and got Cain's wrist, twisting it away and up, because that's a little fucking friendly, isn't it?

He's laughing, though.]

[anewlanguage]

[He twists with his wrist--no sense getting it fractured or sprained--and follows it with pushing his weight onto Ricki, hoping to use one leg to pin him]

You're a hoot, kid--you sure didn't learn this exporting tiles.

[rickitikitarr]

There were tiles.

[He gives, once more, panting now, settling down, feeling a lot better.]

There were just some other things as well, and anyways, Malaysia back then- a prison camp here, an occupation there, you harden up fast.

[anewlanguage]

I know. I lived there for-

[Gritting his teeth, grabbing Ricki's hair to better expose another pressure point, this one under his jaw]

-a couple of years. Still my favorite cuisine.

[rickitikitarr]

[He drives an elbow up, a knee, tries to shove his hand back, choking at the pressure point, unable to get words out through the position, and the pain.]

[anewlanguage]

[The knee catches him in the chest and pushes him back. He sprawls, rolls in one motion into a crouch, and it might look fluid but he hears his joints popping and one or two of them protesting, so he rests there, waiting]

[rickitikitarr]

[He sits up, and holds up his hands, peaceably. That's as much as he can do without getting past the point of fun.]

Back off me, yeah?

[anewlanguage]

[He straightens and offers a hand amiably; good match]

I've got a feeling you could give me hell if you got it in your head to.

[rickitikitarr]

I'm talking about the prying.

[Just so as they're clear.]

Courtesy of one pro to another, I cannot fucking handle the inquisition, not on top of this place, not right now. Leave it, all right?

[anewlanguage]

[Ricki has admitted he is a professional something-or-other, which is a fairly big step.]

Fair enough but you oughta know, one pro to another, if you ask me personal questions you have to trade in a personal answer of your own. But I'll make you a deal, I'll only pry as deep as you do.

[rickitikitarr]

Well, that's fine, as long as you'll keep your mouth shut if I keep my nose clean.

[anewlanguage]

[He shrugs, a touch of the inmate he was bristling at the idea of wardens gathering around to discuss inmates]

Sure. I ain't your warden. It's not my job to share a damn thing about you with anyone else.

[rickitikitarr]

Sure.

[Agreeing, still watching him, wary and feeling a little trapped. The feeling had eased when they'd started fighting, but is returning to him now, a faint, anxious thrum.]

[anewlanguage]

Take a breath, kid.

[He might not be Ricki's warden but he also doesn't want to send him away from this feeling more paranoid.

Naturally, he throws a punch.]

[rickitikitarr]

[It's a testament to how rattled Ricki is that this blindsides him, sprawls him over backwards in surprise, makes him kick out hard on reflex, a surge of uncontrollable panic.]

[anewlanguage]

[The gym is a safer place than letting a terrified whatever-Ricki-is run wild, and the last thing Cain wants is another inmate with a grudge, so he switches gears, works to contain him without actually hurting him]

Hey, hey-

[rickitikitarr]

Back off, or I swear I will break your fucking neck.

[He snarls, getting out from his containment, moving like a scalded cat, icy calm and deadly serious.

He's settling himself down, hands up in a full stop gesture, will be fine, but needs his distance.]

[anewlanguage]

[He's aware of the door--he could reach it first, hopes it won't come to that for how it would look to someone in survival mode.

He keeps his hands open and slightly up, giving the impression of surrender]

Don't give anything back, just listen, alright? I've got a kid on board. And she hates me enough if someone hurt her I probably wouldn't know it for days.

[there: something Ricki knows now that makes Cain infinitely more vulnerable than Ricki is to him, because Cain doesn't know anything about him that comes close.]

[rickitikitarr]

[It's a good move. It makes him stop, breathe, look at him, impassive now and quiet.]

I'm sorry, did I clip you there?

[Mild, mild, mild.]