RIFTER ARRIVAL: Guardian 9:45

[faderifting]

WHO: New rifters, rescuers, and anyone else
WHAT: New arrivals are collected and transported to Kirkwall
WHEN: Mid-Guardian, 9:45
WHERE: The hills north of Starkhaven
NOTES: This log contains prompts for the ARRIVAL and RECOVERY of new rifters, as well as the subsequent QUARANTINE period. All prompts are open to anyone.

Comments

[reshapes]

Someone else has just figured out how to make rings with the horrible, acrid some from a hand-rolled cigarette. He's doing that now: exhaling fat disks and watching them disintegrate in the stale dark air of the cell. Inhale. Exhale--

The boy coughs, curses, and knocks himself once or twice in the center of the chest. How anyone can stand to do this regularly, he couldn't say.

After a moment, he manages: "Oh, I don't know about that. Setting expectations low is a fantastic way to make sure people are shocked later when you really get down to business."

[wont_be_me]

"Smoking will kill you," her voice is airy with the simple factual statement, and lacks any actual concern for him. "If you wanted attention, you have that much."

She pushes off the wall to pace lazily, her boots give a faint metallic jingle as she moves. The little silver tools in her leather jacket catch faint touches of light. "They won't take their eyes off you again, not for a while."

And he doesn't strike her as the patient type.

[reshapes]

Doubtful. The killing part, anyway. The rest unfortunately rings a little more true. And while at present he's thoroughly convinced himself that neither point is a bad thing, it certainly puts a damper on any plan along the extremely sophisticated line of slipping out the back door and while no one's looking. Not, he thinks, that it would really help to run off. What'd he going to do there? Rot more or less in the exact same way as he is doing presently, would be what.

"If I'm going to be here, I don't see why I shouldn't be the center of attention. At least then there's a point to it, eh?" He takes another drag from the cigarette, wrinkles his nose, and finally stubs it out on the filthy stone floor. Eh. He'll give that one another shot later when he doesn't have company.

[wont_be_me]

She raises an eyebrow, pausing briefly in her languid pacing to glance at him. Oh yes, you vain little thing, of course this is all part of the plan.

"Then you're enjoying being an oddity in a cage, helpless for all the curious recruits to gawk at."

She doubts that too, but it's not like she intends to do a fucking thing about it. She's here to gawk at him and make him feel bad, if at all possible.

[reshapes]

A flicker of irritation takes root in the boy's thin face. "Helpless? I think you'll find that's a gross exaggeration of the situation, young lady."

Sure, he might be in between plans right this moment, but helpless has never been an accurate descriptor for the great Bartimaeus of Uruk. So maybe in the not too distant past, he'd spent rather more time knocked flat on his back or on the verge of death than he'd like but there's a difference between that and real, true uselessness. He has his wit at the very least, which is more than anyone else can say.