Ricki Tarr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rickitikitarr) wrote2015-05-01 03:10 pm
rickitikitarr) wrote2015-05-01 03:10 pm
4. voice
All right, this is all good fun and games, kids, but I'm going to be the one who spoils it by asking the question.
What the hell is going on?
And, for that matter, if we're the ones apparently running the show now, is anyone steering the boat?
[Ricki does not want the barge to smash into a sun and everyone to burn up, even though he's currently in the inmate-reclaimed bar and part of him is rather enjoying the fiddling.]
What the hell is going on?
And, for that matter, if we're the ones apparently running the show now, is anyone steering the boat?
[Ricki does not want the barge to smash into a sun and everyone to burn up, even though he's currently in the inmate-reclaimed bar and part of him is rather enjoying the fiddling.]
[spam]
[She reaches out a hand, as though offering to shake.]
[spam]
[spam]
She does not invade his mind, make any attempt to read his thoughts or probe his secrets. She simply rests her mind around the outside of Ricki's, to give him a narrow glimpse of who and what she is.
Her perspective is dizzying. She has many more senses than the human norm: touching Ricki shows her the shape of his past and the exponential spread of his possible futures. Here is the boundary between the ocean of time and the tidepool of that ocean that is the barge's particular bubble, outside that complex ebb and flow: every second that passes is as perceptible to her as the individual insects in a swarm of bees, if the bees happened to have centred their swarm on her head without, somehow, obscuring her other senses.
Here, too, perfectly perceptible, are the minds of her dogs, twin balls of (presently) delighted curiosity and affection: without words, all three give him to understand that they live their lives in constant contact. Here, too, is a fourth entity, much larger and stranger than either Iris or the dogs, as solid and supportive to Iris' mind as the bed and floor are to her body.
She holds it for an instant and then lets go, leaving only the impression of her touch like a lingering scent in a room after the perfume wearer has moved on, only a swirl of displaced air.]
They won't do anything they shouldn't. Well, apart from you can't trust Elvis with toilet rolls, but that's about it.
Re: [spam]
[Ricki says, very, very levelly- and this close there's a good chance she'll feel the mayhem in him, the panic, the way his total stillness indicates an actual diminishing grip on his self-control.]
You do that to me again without warning me, and I will probably try to break your silly neck.
[He wouldn't even want to, is the thing. He withdraws his hand now, and his fingertips are shaking. They're lucky that she's lying here, drawn and helpless, because if she hadn't been he probably would have lost the battle with instinct. As it is he's getting off the bed, fast.]
[spam]
I can be a bit impulsive, can't I? I'm sorry.
Want to see my time machine?
[spam]
[Still reeling back, or doing the equivalent thereof, which is to take slow, measured steps towards the door.
The thing about Ricki is that on a profound level, day to day, he is not all right, so it doesn't take much to put him over the edge. Whatever just happened inside his mind is more than doing the trick. He moves like a cat, gets his hand on the knob without needing to take his eyes off her. There are questions he should ask, but he can't quite put any of them together just now.]
[spam]
[This is hardly the first time Iris has felt bad after giving in to a fleeting impulse; nor will it be the last. Her dogs follow Ricki obediently, and don't make any playful attempts to trip him.
She always thinks it's best to get the culture shock out of the way quickly; but Iris forgets how much this sort of reaction can hurt her.]
[spam]
He slips the door open and sends them through with a nod, a quick;]
They're back.