Test Drive #7 - Ten Forward and Captain's Yacht

[ten_fwd_mods]

Option 01. Ten Forward: The first thing you see is a bar. A large, lively bar filled with many different faces and many different smells, sights and sounds. This is Ten Forward, the Enterprise's off-duty lounge; feel free to get acquainted with your fellow travelers and try to find somebody who's in charge: this is your new home now, after all...





Option 02. The Captain's Yacht: Oooh, you sneaky stowaway! You've found yourself in a very exclusive part of the ship: Captain Picard's personal craft, used for short jaunts when a shuttle just won't do. (One must retain some decorum, after all.) It may not be as large as the Enterprise itself, but there are sure to be some surprises aboard once people start snooping.


[OOC: The Captain's Yacht is located at the very base of the Enterprise's saucer portion, so if you put someone in there you can also play them trying to get back to somewhere they know!]

Comments

[fishermansweater]

Green eyes, sharp in the intensity of their gaze, snap to watch the kid.

In Finnick's world, being young and weaponless is no sign of harmlessness. Especially not to a victor. This boy isn't much younger than Finnick was when he won the Games. But there's nobody that age in the arena this year, because this year, instead of choosing children, they'd chosen victors.

Finnick doesn't move forward, but nor does he back down, or do anything but watch, muscles tensed to launch into the attack he'd been expecting to make. This should be the Cornucopia, the frantic struggle for weapons and supplies that defines so much of the whole rest of the Games.

And it's not.

"Straight out of the launch tubes?" He lets out a half-laugh, a smile with nothing real in it twisting at his mouth. "Attacking things is what the Games is all about."

He takes less reassurance from being told there's nothing to attack than if he'd seen one of his erstwhile opponents racing towards him.

Then he'd know what to do.

[geneticallyscrewed]

Well that was confusing. But Henry had been here long enough to know people come from all sorts of places with all sorts of problems. So he continues to try and look non-threatening and explain.

"There are no Games here. No launch tubes." Whatever they were. "You've been taken from your home world and placed on this space ship. You're not alone. I'm not from here either. There's nothing to panic about. Nothing to attack."

He pauses to let that sink in then slowly extends his arm. "My name is Henry."

[fishermansweater]

"No Games."

He sounds flatly disbelieving.

Not that he doesn't want to be somewhere that's true. That's the point of the rebellion. Throw down Snow and the Capitol, end the Hunger Games, the oppression of the districts, the buying and selling of the victors. The torment, every year, of everyone involved with the whole horrific show, the tributes, the mentors, the families, the victors who will never be free of the arena.

But it's simply not possible. Not without the revolution, the long-protracted fighting the rebels expected, prepared for, stirred up in the districts.

He doesn't believe the Capitol and their tricks, doesn't believe they're not trying to sabotage him, haven't found out about his part in the rebellion, haven't just decided it's time to be rid of him. Though the arena could do that just as well.

Despite appearances, Finnick isn't panicking. He's alert, assessing, on edge, waiting for a threat, but his thoughts are steady, steady as they try to process what he's just been told. There's calculation in the keen green eyes, in the way he looks at the extended hand.

"Space ship?"

As a sailor, a fisherman, a son of District Four with its seas and swells and waters and waves, the juxtaposition of words is a strange one.

Unease is a bad feeling. In Finnick's life, it could mean death, discovery, the loss of one more of the too-few people who matter. He stares at the hand for a few moments too long, assessing, before he drops the guard position, a little, and reaches to shake the hand.

His other hand remains ready to strike if this is a ruse.

"Finnick Odair."

The way he says it suggests he's expecting recognition; he is, and he's keenly watching for any sign of it, those famous green eyes catlike, slightly predatory, his whole being still ready to strike.

so late;; sorry!

[geneticallyscrewed]

"Nice to meet you, Finnick." There was no recognition in Henry's eyes. Hunger Games hadn't reached Storybrooke. But he smiled and shook the man's hand.

"If you have any questions, feel free to ask. You'll get more of a briefing later from Lt Worf but I can answer stuff now if you like. I've been here a while."

Several times. But Finnick didn't need to know that.

[fishermansweater]

There's nothing of threat in the way Henry moves, no trap lurking in the handshake. Nothing but apparent polite friendliness, and that's strange in itself. Everyone who meets him wants something from him: his favor, his smile, his help, his fame.

And the kids he meets? They want his example as a victor or his help as a mentor.

He hasn't had a frank, straightforward greeting like that in a long time. He's trying to read anything hidden in it, but if it's there, he can't find it.

Finnick's chin lifts.

"None of this makes sense."

His tone is accusatory, but only a little; Henry may have no blame for that. Or he may have much blame for it.