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trans_92009-04-08 03:29 am
foursleeves.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92009-04-08 03:29 am
Entry tags:
You're not Ulysses. You're never going home. [Open]
After the ruckus of the last crew meeting, the ship felt-- quiet. At least, that was the impression Peter Parker was getting. The mess was deserted, the observation deck deathly still. He'd lingered there several minutes, but looking out into the whatever-it-was, the ether that the ship travels through set him on edge.
His first thought had been to stop by the medbay and get the suit checked out. The, what was his name, Pat? He'd said that it was alive and that there was a strong chance that it was homicidal. He reached the doors, his hand on the entry panel, but something... something had convinced him otherwise. Perhaps the commotion of strangers or the distrust of said medbay's equipment. Both perfectly rational, right?
Instead he wanders, as absent-mindedly as it is possible for a hyperactive Marx brothers fanatic to do, into the Sensoriums.
Oh. Oh, he'd heard talk of these. His first thought had flitted straight to Tron. But he could program practically anything, right? At least, so he'd heard.
He hesitates a moment before venturing, "Stacy honey, y'there?"
||Input request, Peter Parker.||
He doesn't get chance to respond. The thought is plucked from his mind and reassembled in front of him. First a vague form; something vaguely humanoid. Scratch that, something vaguely humanoid with dynamite curves. With each blink new features become defined before the grand finale. A flash of red hair.
"MJ--"
"Peter." She's there. She's right there! Flesh and blood and-- no, that's not it at all. She's just a hallucination, an acid flashback. Peter reluctantly turns away, his shoulders sagging with dejection.
"Peter, I've missed you. I l--"
"End simulation." He cuts her off. A bloop signals Stacy's compliance. There's silence again, silence that persists for several minutes. Peter's frame continues to sag until it's puddled on the floor. He stares at the ships floor and wonders how something organic can look so sterile. Then, suddenly, he smiles. The contortion of his mask just barely betrays it.
"Stace, can a brother get a New York, circa early 21st century?" The response he receives is a chain of blips and bloops, before, rather Matrix-like, the towering Manhatten cityscape swells and blossoms around him. AI drones shuffle around him, to-ing and fro-ing on their way to a workplace or a home that doesn't really exist. That doesn't matter though. The faux-city clamours with all the hubbub of home, the clammy smell of home, and most importantly the skies to get lost in. A powerful kickoff launches him into the air, a net of webbing trailing in his wake. Through the rush of faux-wind, he calls out to the ship.
"That'll do, Pig."
His first thought had been to stop by the medbay and get the suit checked out. The, what was his name, Pat? He'd said that it was alive and that there was a strong chance that it was homicidal. He reached the doors, his hand on the entry panel, but something... something had convinced him otherwise. Perhaps the commotion of strangers or the distrust of said medbay's equipment. Both perfectly rational, right?
Instead he wanders, as absent-mindedly as it is possible for a hyperactive Marx brothers fanatic to do, into the Sensoriums.
Oh. Oh, he'd heard talk of these. His first thought had flitted straight to Tron. But he could program practically anything, right? At least, so he'd heard.
He hesitates a moment before venturing, "Stacy honey, y'there?"
||Input request, Peter Parker.||
He doesn't get chance to respond. The thought is plucked from his mind and reassembled in front of him. First a vague form; something vaguely humanoid. Scratch that, something vaguely humanoid with dynamite curves. With each blink new features become defined before the grand finale. A flash of red hair.
"MJ--"
"Peter." She's there. She's right there! Flesh and blood and-- no, that's not it at all. She's just a hallucination, an acid flashback. Peter reluctantly turns away, his shoulders sagging with dejection.
"Peter, I've missed you. I l--"
"End simulation." He cuts her off. A bloop signals Stacy's compliance. There's silence again, silence that persists for several minutes. Peter's frame continues to sag until it's puddled on the floor. He stares at the ships floor and wonders how something organic can look so sterile. Then, suddenly, he smiles. The contortion of his mask just barely betrays it.
"Stace, can a brother get a New York, circa early 21st century?" The response he receives is a chain of blips and bloops, before, rather Matrix-like, the towering Manhatten cityscape swells and blossoms around him. AI drones shuffle around him, to-ing and fro-ing on their way to a workplace or a home that doesn't really exist. That doesn't matter though. The faux-city clamours with all the hubbub of home, the clammy smell of home, and most importantly the skies to get lost in. A powerful kickoff launches him into the air, a net of webbing trailing in his wake. Through the rush of faux-wind, he calls out to the ship.
"That'll do, Pig."
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Seeing no one yet, Danny takes to the sky with a cry of "Going Ghost!"
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