trans_9 | Beyond the Sea [Closed]

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Beyond the Sea [Closed]

||Attention, Attention. The following personnel please report to the Observation Deck. Attention, Attention. The following personnel please report to the Observation Deck.

Howard Bassen
Allenby Beardsley
Jake Berenson
John Crichton
Kanoe Zouichi
Lash
Jamie McCrimmon
M'gann M'orzz
Erhart Ritter||

On the Obs Deck, the following mission information was displayed, for any who cared to see:

Planet Designation: Nereus IV Status: Terrestrial, H-class Non-sentient life: Extensive flora and fauna Semi-sentient life: Yes Sentient life: Yes Water: 79.3% of planet's surface Climate: Earth-like Landscape: Variable. Much of the planet's landmasses are partially submerged. Air: Normoxic concentration: 31% oxygen, 60% nitrogen, 2% xenon, 4% trace gases, such as hydrogen, krypton, and argon. Air Pressure: 93.8 kPa (kilopascals) = 13.6 psi (pounds per square inch) Sky: Blue. Sun: Class G yellow star Warnings: Occasional hostile or poisonous sea life. Mission: Assist the crew of the Saratoga in investigating the communications loss with the deep oceanic station, Deepstar 7.

Additional setting information for the station, including a list of available areas, is here.

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Howard, you're not helping John's state of mind here. He's torn between thinking this is Howard's place, Dad's, or none of the above and right now he just doesn't feel up to playing apples and oranges here even if he was on a good day. That's the thing. There's good days and bad days and he's not just talking about crappy, wake up on the wrong side of the bed ones.

John blinks, swallows, tries to focus, and nods. "Yeah. Wait, no. My dad's. Not technically mine."

Only it looks like his too, except now he isn't even sure. It's only been a few years, but time out in space is different than back home. He's gotten used to Moya's hum, checking Rygel's quarters when His Royal Highness is out to collect any stuff of his that might've "wandered in". This is like being back on another alien world, and he finds himself staring at the toaster on the table and not quite seeing it, like he almost doesn't recognize it anymore. John tears himself away from the toaster, wheeling on Howard and finding himself pushing away the plate of scrambled eggs that the kid is trying to offer him like a good little squatter...host. Whatever.

"How'd you get here? Door open? Dad's not the kind to just leave the door open." John frowns, glancing around. Where's Dad anyway? Someone breaks in and you'd think he'd come running with a bat. Nevermind the son who got puked up by a wormhole.

There's no easy way to see "Dad, I'm home", is there?

"I woke up. In my bed. Upstairs." Howard runs his hands over his face as if as soon as he opens his eyes again this will all make sense. Their kitchen was never this big. The windows were never there. Everything's wrong and yet he'd stake his life on the fact that he walked downstairs to this room from his own bed.

"Where'd you wake up?" He runs his lower lip under his front teeth, side to side, as he looks at John. John's like something in the wrong context, like animation in a live-action movie or stickers in a yearbook. For a moment Howard wants to erase John and just pretend the kitchen has always been like this, because that would make everything fit into some narration of logical, but obviously he couldn't do that even if he wanted to.

Howard puts down the plate of scrambled eggs in his hands and that's...funny. He doesn't remember making them. He doesn't even know how to use this stove because this isn't his kitchen, and he's pretty sure the stove at his house wasn't propane. And since when does he offer food to people?

For the first time in a long time, he stares at the food on the plate and isn't overwhelmed by the impulse to shove it all his mouth as quickly as possible. In fact, the idea makes him a bit queasy. It's like he can hear the voice in his head that says 'eat now, it won't be there later' but it's a dull echo coming from far away and underwater, a murmur or a gurgle instead of a screaming, bullhorn-assisted cacophony of drill-sergeant orders that he's so used to.

Was it a dream? Stacy and the FAYZ and everything those two scenarios entailed, the Deepstar Seven and Epicurea and Galilee? Do you dream up the recovery process of a trauma? Do you dream up entire friendships? Are dreams that elaborate, ever?

Is this a dream? Because Howard suddenly realizes he doesn't want this to be the dream. He wants reality, here, in this strange kitchen, and so he starts looking for reasons to think that this must be the waking life. It has to be. The alternative is too weird and downright nonsensical, and anyway, you don't share dreams with people. Certainly not boring dreams about waking up in your house and finding the rooms a little remodeled.

It doesn't do anything to cure that rising state of panic Howard's feeling.

He dumps the eggs in the garbage disposal (and it feels liberating to be able to do that) and looks for John to give an order. In this world, in this world he wants to be the real world so badly, he's just a normal kid who never had to live on his own or make life-or-death decisions. He's just a kid who had a really long, really complicated, really weird nightmare and woke up to a new kitchen.

"Should we go outside? I don't...I don't think anyone else is home, your dad or my parents or..." He can see from the way John's looking around that John's looking for his dad now, and that that's the number one concern. If John's intent on going through this mishmash house Howard will follow, but he's afraid of what they might find. And more importantly, what they won't find.

When he woke up? Suddenly that seems like the million dollar question because the thing is, John doesn't even remember now that he thinks about it and he's trying not to get too worried about it -- or at least look like he's worried.

He watches Howard trash the eggs without really thinking about how they got in there or why they'd gone from scrambled to poached (he was sure they’d been scrambled, right?), blinking and looking for a moment as he tried to think of a diplomatic, non-panic-inducing way to say "I don't remember". Luckily Howard saves him the trouble.

"Yeah, figure we better take a look," John says, latching onto that like it was the best idea he's heard all day. That sounds like a plan and maybe it wasn't one of his plans but going by his whole history of planning, maybe that's for the better. "Look, we'll find my dad - or your parents - and we'll get this thing fixed."

John is careful not to say "when". He's learned you don't say when 'cause you probably can't guarantee it and even if you could, there's bound to be something else happening that'll make that a moot point. It doesn't occur to him that maybe they better arm themselves, John trying toward the kitchen door leading outside and making sure Howard's more or less behind him before he steps through.

"Shouldn't we try the bedroom first?" Howard protests, but it's a weak little sound. Like he's trying to provide some alternative to going outside. Like he already knows it's going to fail. Some part of him deep down does. This is too good to be true, and so he can feel the fear forming, like a physical x-ray coat draped around his shoulders or a bowling ball of neuroses nestled into his guts.

And as such, it does occur to Howard that he should bring a weapon, because it never does to face fear empty-handed. He reaches a hand to his pocket for his knife and finds it isn't there. In fact, he's still in his boxers and an oversized Muse t-shirt that nearly goes down to his knees. In some part of his head, off behind the rest of everything, it occurs to him that he usually should find pants before heading outside, and that it's just fitting for dreams to leave you pantsless.

If this is a dream. Maybe if he repeats to himself it isn't, along with some requisite (and painful!) lipbiting, he can will it to revealing itself to be reality. He grabs an matchbook for weaponry because, for some reason, that seems like the most obvious idea. Fire, right?

"What's your dad look like? I mean, if we see him? All you people look the same." It's not a very good joke and yet somehow it seems hilarious to him in the face of all this uncertainty. Either way, he'll be looking for people with John's facial features. Straightish nose, flat eyebrows that fall closer to the eyes than on normal people, boxy headshape. Not altogether unattractive, not that Howard would ever tell John that, not to mention that John's a solid two decades too old probably. No, thank you.

He follows John through the door, matches in hand.

Why would they bother with the bedroom? John shoots Howard a frown. He's not exactly soldier material himself, but if there's something weird going on, he thinks it's better to scope out the lay of the land first.

John almost misses a step at Howard asking about his dad. Dad. There's a complicated one: you mean my real one or the alien posing as my dad 'cause these are both valid questions. He's not sure how much he wants to talk about either. Real Dad, well, he misses the man and everything he left behind and there's been way too many days where John's thought about his last words to him and he gets to wishing he'd said something more. As for Fake Dad..."it's all your fault?" Yeah, that's about right. John's still pissed at him (it?) for sticking a trojan in his head like that, even if the alien had been trying to help.

John just gives a shrug, aiming for casual. It occurs to him what Howard probably means - for a second he was still running with "you" meaning "anyone who looks Sebacean". "You know us white guys. About my height, white hair. Could stare down a Marine if he tried."

Coming out onto the porch, there's no sign of Dad. John's almost relieved. He spots his old truck - his truck, the one that shouldn't even be here - and decides that if he's gonna spook, it's not going to be now. Howard doesn't need to see John Crichton spooking.

He turns, just in time to catch what Howard is holding in his hand.

"We going camping or something?" John tries to remember. He's pretty sure they weren't, but Howard's already halfway on the s'mores front and damn, does he miss s'mores. Hell, he even misses the greasy, heart-attack inducing chow mein from that place a few blocks from his apartment.

Now he's wishing he'd taken the eggs from Howard.

"Ah, so he's got the laser eyes thing going on." Partially to amuse himself, Howard makes a laser eyes expression himself behind John's back. Because pulling faces and being flip is much better than settling on any sort of uneasy anxiety.

A few drops of rain start to fall. Rain! Blessed, wonderful rain! What a way to remind Howard he's not back in the FAYZ - actual weather

Howard's eyes settle on the truck too. Funny, it's the only vehicle on the street. It's the only anything on the street, really. Just cement sidewalks and asphalt and pain and the one lone truck. "I bet I could hotwire that thing."

Howard stealing your vehicles might become a Thing, John.

He doesn't answer John's inquiry about the matches, either. Sure, John can be the gung-ho experience-with-aliens type, but Howard knows what he's doing. Probably. Or not. If not he'll make it up as he goes along, and for the most part he hasn't let himself down yet.

Howard pauses. "Uh, John?"

He tilts his neck up and stares at the sky. Or rather, the lack of. Where there should be blue skies or clouds or at the very least a sun, it looks as if someone took a Photoshop eraser and just wiped away the entire top of the horizon. Which makes it unusual that down on the ground, shadows are cast as if there's still a sun up there.

A few more drops of rain fall, and Howard glances down at one that lands on his wrist. The droplet's black, like ink.

"Please tell me you have more of an idea than I do what's going on."

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Beyond the Sea [Closed]

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sorry it's short ;a;

no problem bb <3

Anything you wanted them to stumble into?

let's go surreal!