[Semi-Open, Arrival] Dreaming Wide Awake
WHO: Naomi Nagata, James Holden, Amos Burton, a Rescue Crew and OPEN
WHAT: A woman falls out of space and onto Thedas. Some damage is incurred, some recovery time is needed, some reunions are happening. Also: Space resident's first exposure to snow.
WHEN: Covering arrival, quarantine/recovery and first steps in a snowy Kirkwall
WHERE: Wounded Coast, Riftwatch Infirmary, Kirkwall
NOTES: If you want to continue any CWs for description of/discussion of injuries sustained, pain suffered, Holden being a sap
WHAT: A woman falls out of space and onto Thedas. Some damage is incurred, some recovery time is needed, some reunions are happening. Also: Space resident's first exposure to snow.
WHEN: Covering arrival, quarantine/recovery and first steps in a snowy Kirkwall
WHERE: Wounded Coast, Riftwatch Infirmary, Kirkwall
NOTES: If you want to continue any CWs for description of/discussion of injuries sustained, pain suffered, Holden being a sap
At first, there is nothing. She floats, as she has done all her life, when the ring gate decelerates everything in an instant, and Naomi is knocked out cold.
Her dream is a simple thing. To stand aboard the Rocinante, to hug Alex, to touch her forehead to Amos', to hold Holden close. To tell them all she has to say, and to be welcomed back.
Instead, she comes to when she falls, thin body impacting on hard ground, vision flooding with flickering green, and beyond... the horrifying sight not of metal, not even of the darkness between stars... but of a grey, cloudy sky.
[ ooc: Closed and Open Prompts in comments below. If you'd like to do something else or discuss handwaving/continuing TDM threads, feel free to shoot me a message:
Please also take a gander at Naomi's Permissions/CWs/Opt-Outs as well as her Info post. ]

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"I'd deserve that," Naomi sighs, glad for the offered hand and taking it to get her bearing again. "Though I'll choose to take that as a compliment." The tone is amused, but there's strain there - has been pretty much any time Naomi's done more than rest.
Still, she's stubborn. Pushes till her muscles scream and her bones groan, till her heart races and her lungs burn.
"I suppose I'm impatient in my recovery."
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"You ain't on the front lines, you don't have a reason to be in a hurry," she says firmly, "Rushing healing is how people end up needing someone with a bone saw and leeches. Those lungs of yours got me worried enough as it is without you making me worry about your legs or head on top of it."
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Naomi has no idea what leeches even are, but the words 'bone' and 'saw' are familiar enough to conjure up unpleasant picture. She'd do well to remember that aside from 'magic' - she's still not convinced it's not merely science alien to her understanding of it - the medical advancements here are... limited, at best.
No regrowing spines or limbs, either.
"It's getting easier though - breathing, I mean. When you say bone saw... sabaka, no, I'm not going to ask." Naomi wrinkles her nose, and doesn't put up resistance on the way back towards the bed. Faced with Sister Sawbones - oh - she knows that pushing back is a waste of energy. "Is it too much to hope Jim won't hear of this? I don't want him to worry."
He does too much of that.
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As soon as Naomi's back on the cot, she's going to get blankets tossed over her. "And a bone saw is what it sounds like. I haven't had to use mine in a while and I'd like to keep it that way if you please."
Because she is also too short to be above terrorizing her patients too.
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"If you've got some time, how about I barter for some conversation and information? Couple questions both ways. Will probably prevent me from wanting to push my luck with you, too, as a bonus."
There's some mirth in Naomi's dark eyes, but mostly her smile masks the pinched expression on her face as she pulls the blankets around herself, keeping her breathing level through the aches and pains of her body trying to settle further into the gravity well.
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"All right," she says, hopping up onto the seat that's primarily been occupied by one James Holden since Naomi's arrival. She pulls a small field journal and a stub of a pencil out of her pocket. "Aside from the instance of your arrival and your current predicament, are there any other issues we should be aware of?"
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But those are all no longer relevant. The things that will matter here, down the gravity well of Thedas, are quite different.
"You know the weak lungs. The heart is also...," Naomi makes a fist to indicate the size of a human heart, then tightens the fist, indicating a smaller shape, "weaker, smaller. My bones are thinner and more brittle than those of other humans you'd know here, including Amos and Holden. Less muscle mass, too. And I don't mean because they're both strong. Physical activity is likely going to remain a strain. Cardiovascular issues are likely..." Naomi pauses, then points to her chest. "Lungs, heart, blood vessels. My body is weak, is the main takeaway. But no other lasting illnesses, no other defects."
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James Holden operates on worry and coffee instead of sleep.
"I'll be alright." Not quite a promise to actually take more care with herself. "I don't want to be a burden on his mind."
If the words embrium and elfroot are unfamiliar, well, Naomi doesn't know most names for plants in her own galaxy, either. She's holding out hope that 'nug blood' is just a name for a red liquid, but has a sinking suspicion about that.
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Edict handed out, Sawbones settles back on her stool. "All right, you answered my question. You got any? I don't know what they're telling Rifters these days."
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"Much that makes my head hurt," Naomi admits. "Ask me to run a relativistic calculation of fusion product spectra for themonuclear plasmas and I can shake something together, but this world operates on very different principles." For a moment, Naomi hesitates, then she shrugs - with her hands, not with her shoulders. "I thought I'd ask something... smaller, but perhaps more on the level I'm familiar with." Perhaps it's telling, then, that her hand drifts to the black ink circling her throat. "I was wondering if you'd tell me about the tattoo."
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"It ain't a tattoo," she says crisply, "Some folks do have those." She gestures to Naomi's tattoo, "Dalish mostly. They're elves that keep to themselves mostly, prefer their old ways. I'm from Orzammar, an underground city." How had she explained this to Amos? It's not a memory she hangs on to. "Orzammar's got a caste system. Everybody who ain't is Casteless and they get the brand."
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Well... mostly.
"Where I'm from, we're all human," Naomi says, carefully searching for the right way through the angles of unpleasantness and overlapping but not really similar experiences. "But I'm a Belter - a person from the Belt. We mine resources for the Inners - the people from Earth and Mars. The work is dangerous, and you have to wear a protective suit. Covers all of you, 'cause you have to shield your skin. Wear a helmet on your head, too, that goes all the way around and over. It closes with a metal seal that sit around the neck."
Her fingers linger on the tattoo still.
"We do the work, but we're poor. It's dangerous, but our equipment is often junk and scrap. The suits used to be worse than they are now, and many Belters couldn't get the better, newer stuff. So sometimes the seal got damaged, or was just old and shit, or it was someone else's suit you inherited and it didn't fit your growing pains quite right, sasa? So older Belters, many of them have scars on their neck in the circle pattern of their suit's busted seal, burns from heat or from cold that got through. And any Inner would see that scar on someone and know 'ah, that is a Belter'. Many of them barely consider us human anymore, but less than."
It's not the same, so Naomi doesn't pretend it is. She doesn't say 'I understand' or 'I know what that's like', because she doesn't like to lie like that. Hardship knows hardship. Less than knows less than, no matter how untrue it should be. Casteless and Belter isn't the same. And yet.
"Thank you for telling me." She doesn't say 'you could have not answered', because Sawbones strikes her as strong enough to know that, and Naomi appreciates she got an answer anyway. "Your turn?" she offers, in case Sawbones wants to take it and ask more questions.
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The instinctive defensiveness eases as Naomi explains Belters. It's not near the same as being Casteless, but it's not so foreign. Saying anything in response seems partly, would shift the delicate recognition of each other.
So what she says instead is "What's themonuclear plasmas?"
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"So you know how there are three states of matter, ke? Solid, liquid, gaseous. And some matter can be all three of them. Heat up ice, you get water, heat up water, you get steam, which is a gas. Plasma is basically... superheated matter, forming a particlar type of gas that we sometimes call the fourth state of matter. Thermonuclear plasmas are those involved in chemical reactions that release tremendous amounts of energy - and heat."
She looks down again, biting her lower lip a little to see if the simplified explanation brings any clarity.
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It sounded a bit like lyrium. There was nothing particularly magical about lyrium to dwarves, but it was a craft that Sawbones had never had much access to either above or below ground.
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Naomi shrugs with her hands. Chemistry isn't really her area of expertise, but she'd covered the basics in terms of thermonuclear fusion.
"Do you get lightning here? Lightning is a form of natural plasma. The sun is, too. So are stars."
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"But what do you use it for?"
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Naomi makes a motion with her hands like a small explosion.
"So you generate the energy on the ship, and create various chemical reactions to funnel this energy out the ship and into one direction," she explains, motioning away from one hand held up in place of the ship, "which propels your ship the other direction."
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And that might just be what's behind the golemns. At least in part. But there are things you don't say to a surfacer, even if they're technically not from the Surface at all. She sighs.
"Not my field," she says almost regretfully, "Never had a hand for metal crafting and the Crafters will happily slit throats before they share tricks with another caste." Nevermind a Casteless, "Right, your turn."
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People always try to group themselves and 'other' themselves to put their boots on someone's neck. It's not sympathy in Naomi's eyes, but she subconsciously scratches on the seem of her neck tattoo in thought.
"Lyrium, then, not mechanics. How do you handle it right - or wrong?"
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