trans_9 | Claustrophobia Times Ten Plus Meatship [open]

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Claustrophobia Times Ten Plus Meatship [open]

It doesn't take long at all for Yoshimi to become overwhelmed by the large crowd in the Obs Deck. Frown lines etch themselves deeper and deeper into her face before she finally makes a break for it, spotting an exit across the room. Rather hurriedly, she shoves through the groups of people, muttering apologies as she elbows and steps on people. She has always been a titch claustrophobic, and the combination of a large mass of people and the peculiar, anxiety-producing situation of being abducted seems to have amplified the feeling tenfold.

When she finds herself alone in the hallway, she exhales heavily, leaning against the wall and sliding to the floor. She doesn't even feel compelled to explore the ship as she would have had she been feeling any differently. Though she wouldn't admit it to herself, she was intrigued by the entire situation. A talking ship named Stacy floating around kidnapping people from different dimensions and places in the time stream for some Great Purpose, capital-G, capital-P. It was like something out of a sci-fi novel, something that Yoshimi would have enjoyed reading. She wasn't enjoying it very much now that she was part of it, though. A sigh escapes.

"Stupid meatship," she mutters, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes. At least the people were nice.

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At that, she almost giggled. Almost. Okay, fine, she laughed.

Her short outburst of laughter caught her by surprise, and she blinks like a scared puppy for a few seconds before shaking her head slightly and blaming it internally on the bizarreness of the situation. "Well then, I'll just have to give the floors a stern talking to and tell them to put me back where I came from, except that there's no way in Hell that that would work." She hesitates, looks at him pleadingly, hopefully. "Is there?"

She gives up quickly, because of course that wouldn't work, that would just be too easy and wonderful and Ganesha, I wouldn't have to worry about Chief! I could go home and feed him and he would meow at me with his little pink splotch and it would be all fine and dandy and then I would go out and kill some AI's and it would all go back to normal and I could pretend that this never - "I haven't ever really encountered freaky like this, unless you count that one deranged Class B construction AI that just wouldn't stay dead. That was freaky. Turned out that I hadn't completely severed its gas line. It almost got my other leg while I was trying, too. Ugh..." On second thought, maybe the meaty, transdimensional ship was a bit less dangerous... She somehow doubted that she would lose any limbs because of something Stacy did. She could be wrong, though.

"Are you kidding?" he replies, lines appearing in the mask where he grins underneath, "I bet you'll walk all over them!"

He watches her blankly as she spiels, both internally and externally, before his brow furrows, "Wait... Your other leg?"

She snorts. "You're horrible, you know that? Completely horrible." She shakes her heading, snickering under her breath. "Horrible," she mutters again, exhaling loudly. When she looks up, she's actually smiling a bit. The Apocalypse may or may not have occurred.

"My other leg," she repeats, nodding. "Not that the first one was got by robots. It was a medical procedure. The thing's a friggin' robot, and it's been that way since I was born." She hits her hand against her right shin, and if one listens hard enough, there is an odd pingy frequency to the sound it makes, almost metallic, but not.

"That's me," he replies faux proudly, puffing out his chest, "The bad cop to Stacy's ambivalent cop."

Proportionate hearing of a Spider. The narration isn't entirely sure whether that's good or not. He does, however, hear the ever so slightly tinny noise her leg makes, "Gee, Heather Mills'd kill for one of those. Does it have wi-fi? Can you get Facebook?"

"Mm," she says for lack of any other way to respond. She hasn't run into anyone this... peppy in a while. He's got spunk. She almost groans when he mentions Facebook, though. "God no. That would be horrific. Hilarious, but horrific." She also has to hold in another bout of laughter, and the momentarily entertains the thought that possibly, maybe, she's going insane.

He rubs his chin with his thumb and index finger, "I suppose if it did they'd call it Legbook... Imagine the profile pictures."

"So, you're a superhero, huh?" an assumption he makes based on all the talk of robot slaying. It's not exactly an unusual subject to guys like him, "Can't be from my universe or we would've had a buddy movie team-up by now."

Running a hand through her hair, Yoshimi can't help wondering how this guy manages to be consistently (and poorly) humorous. Trying not to laugh like an idiot is taking a lot of her energy, and the smile on her face feels entirely too unnatural. She chooses not to respond to the 'Legbook' comment.

"Hah! Superhero my ass. The government spends most of their time trying to decide whether I actually have a hand in what's causing the need for my job, which means that about three times a week I'm tentatively named an outlaw, and the rest of the time police give me weird looks and stay very, very far away from me. The public isn't very fond of me, either. I'm a techno-mercenary, and I don't really have... any... po...wers..." Yoshimi's eyes seem to have broken, because she seems to be imagining that the weird suit the guy in front of her is wearing is actually a Spiderman suit. And he's talking about superheroes. And movies. And Legbook, but that's not important. "Please tell me you're not Spiderman... or Peter Parker... or whoever... Because that would just be weird. Really, really weird. Incredibly weird. People don't meet Spiderman. They just don't. He's... You're... He's a worshipped comicbook character... Worshipped comicbook characters don't just show up while you're moping in a corner about your recent abduction - Hello, Spiderman/Peter Parker, I'm Yoshimi, and it's been about ten years since I read them, but I used to be completely obsessed with your everything and you can actually believe that because it's hard as hell to get your hands on comics from the... before 2050 in my world, but I pulled it off, and no, no, you're not Spiderman, I'm going crazy!" From the way she is talking, the 'going crazy' is pretty believable. She has risen to her feet somewhere in the middle of her nonsensical diatribe, and is now pacing back and forth in front of where the Peter Parker person is still crouching. "Crazy!"

He blinks as she splurges, then waves a hand in front of her face and tuts to himself, "I think she crashed."

This is not the first time the Peter Parker name has been brought up, but it still catches him off guard. First it had been the li'l Hawkeye girl from the future, and that had been just as unnerving. Because, thankfully for this Peter, his identity is still a moderately close-guarded secret. He shifs his weight from one foot to the other.

"No, that would be ridiculous," he replies sardonically, "I mean, could you imagine Spider-Man running around here? Telling bad jokes and pissing off the powers that be? Nah-- nah, I'm Mother Teresa."

Yoshimi twitches slightly as he waves a hand in front of her face. She hasn't ever done well with things close to her face. "Yeah... yeah, 'crashed' is a very good word for the way my brain is exploding right now. It's like... well, I just almost said something horrible about that one big catastrophe that involved the planes and the World Trade Center way back when in 2001 in my dimension, but I try really hard to avoid making fun of things like that, Holocaust included, so... offensiveness aside, I'm going to try really hard to stop freaking out and no, you are not Mother Teresa, you are Spiderman, or the eight-year-old inside my head might start crying." Really, though, the 'crazy' thing is fast becoming more believable.

"Okay. Deep breaths, Yoshimi," she mutters, running her hand through her hair again, letting its falling-in-face-pinkness annoy her out of her temporary insanity. "Okay. I'm fine. Yeah. Okay. Sorry about that. Blame Stacy." Because Stacy is the reason for her nervous-breakdown-of-sorts, not that Yoshimi would admit that she is having a nervous breakdown.

"... Can I take you back to New York when we get out of this? I know a certain newspaper that could use a more spider friendly editor. I mean, you'd have to grow a moustache and smoke at least five cigars a day. It's a filthy habit but it looks pretty evocative."

She blinks. "If it's possible to drop people in dimensions other than the one they came from, then sure. At least I wouldn't have to put up with robots anymore... The moustache'll take a bit of work, though, what with the female-ness and the lack of facial hair... could I just wear a fedora instead? Cigars and a fedora sound better."

"Don't fret, there are plenty of psychotic robots hellbent on world destruction to share around in our dimension too. Even the good robots are a little psychotic. Just a little. Compassionately psychotic?"

He ums-and-ahs for a few moments, then holds his fingers up in a square in front of his face.

"Yeah, okay. I can see you in a fedora. Can you do Humphrey Bogart?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, glee. The psychotic ones are my favorites." Her sarcasm is not at all evident.

A smirk blossoms on her face, and she looks down at herself. "I'm eight inches too short to be Humphrey Bogart, but I'll try really hard." She then tries to imitate his pose on the movie poster for Casablanca that she's seen in the museum, imaginary gun-in-hand and all.

"Of course they are," he affirms, "It's that or the weirdly homoerotic ones. Is roboerotic a word?"

He scrunches his face up, creasing the mask every which way, "Does that mean we have to buy you platforms too? I gotta say, my budget is not that expansive. I only have the small change that came with me, and this suit doesn't exactly have huge pockets."

"It is now," she says, waving a hand vaguely for no apparent reason. "I haven't encountered the weirdly homoerotic ones, though. How are they weirdly homoerotic?"

Yoshimi ponders this. "Well, I have some rocking horse shoes in my apartment. If Stacy'll let me run in to grab them and my cat, we won't even have to bother with platforms. My one and only article of vintage clothing, them. They're real Vivienne Westwoods, too. I hate designers on principle, but she had spunk." She's letting the hypothetical situation get way out of hand, but she doesn't care very much; it's making her not-freak out.

"You're telling me you never saw Star Wars?" he retorts with disbelief, "Let it be said-- stay away from robots who travel in pairs. Nothing good will come of it."

He grimaces. Again, it's sort of lost under the mask, "I preferred her before she started getting caught peeing over the side during boat parties hosted by the Sex Pistols and making trousers that make you look like you've left yourself an unfortunate present in the trunk."

She looks enlightened. "Oh! That's what you meant. Yeah, I saw those. There was a screening a few years ago. One of my acquaintances dragged me to it and it ended up being fantastic. Okay, point taken." A nod, a laugh.

And another laugh, this one louder and more abrupt. "Well, I wasn't aware that she went that far, though I did know that she pushed limits. That probably has something to do with why I only have one thing from her, though. Wow..."

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Claustrophobia Times Ten Plus Meatship [open]

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