sojournerdeep | [Location - A park, during zero G]

Brier is certainly a person who avoids open air spaces during gravity events. Unfortunately, you can't always (ever) predict when those are going to happen. She is in mid-step when it goes, and she tumbles forward, nearly dropping her sewing basket. It is, thankfully, within arm's reach, and she manages to gather it back to herself, smoothing her skirts against her legs and pinning them there with her knees. This leaves her little option but to sit and wait for the gravity to return to normal, though there is a footpath with a rail nearby, She reaches out and manages to just barely touch it with her fingers. Unfortunately the force of touching it pushes her back, away from it.

Brier manages to stop herself from going too far with a combination of her feet and spreading her skirt to create resistance, but gone is the hope of doing anything about her situation but just floating until it resolves itself.

She watches, in the distance, a man throwing a rock into the air and wonders what he will do when it comes back down.

Edited 2016-11-08 10:58 (UTC)

The point is actually that he wants to see what happens when it doesn't. Jason watches, and watches, hand still shading his eyes, occasionally with a little glance down at his watch, counting... After a few minutes he lowers his gaze, seemingly done with whatever the point of that was-- and in his peripheral vision, he catches sight of a floating woman.

Still keeping a hand firmly on the rail, Jason lifts the other hand and calls out, "Do you need assistance?"

Brier looks over at the man. She smooths the skirts down again, hoping he has not now seen TOO much of her undergarments.

"Thank you, sir. But...I wouldn't want to get you in the same sort of trouble." she calls back

(Don't worry, Brier, he's a fair bit off.)

Jason grunts, unheard at this distance, and starts working his way towards the woman, or girl judging by the young sound of her voice, he thinks. He tries to make this a walk along the path, but gravity has other ideas; ultimately it becomes much simpler to just let his feet drift off the planks and haul himself along the railing, hand-over-hand, as though it were a rope.

When he's close enough to talk without needing to yell, Jason rotates his person back into verticality. At this close distance, he can be seen to have a "rope" made of bedsheets coiled around one shoulder.

"I think it can be managed," he says brusquely. The rope comes off, and Jason starts spinning the end of it, to which there's attached a clump of protruding metal wires. Centripetal force works even if gravity doesn't: an object still wishes to travel in a straight line, and is still compelled by the fixed point at the center. And when Jason lets the hook go, it sails out past Brier on a trajectory unbothered by gravity. The knotted bedsheets hang in mid-air next to her, drifting slowly, like kelp undersea.

"If you shall just grab hold of that, miss," says the tall man with the somewhat dour, or at least unsmiling, expression.

She watches him, a little puzzled. How to move - how to make things work, in zero gravity, is not a question which had ever come up in Brier Delman's pre-Sojourner experience. She's had to learn a lot fairly quickly. This man's rescue has taught her something new.

She lets go of the sewing basket for the time being. It's closed, her needles won't go anywhere, she might as well let it fall to the ground. She takes hold of the rope with both hands and starts to climb towards Jason. Soon she is at the rail and she transfers one hand to it. When she has a firm hold, she transfers the other hand to her skirts and attempts to reorient herself into a sitting position, perched on the top of the rail, with her feet tucked around a support bar further down. Her skirt she pins in place with her knees.

Modesty in zero gravity can be tricky.

"Thank you very much, sir. I'm sorry to trouble you in the mist of your...experiments?" Why does it seem like all of the people she meets here talk about experiments.

It's the attempts at modesty as much as anything else-- somewhat outdated attempts at modesty, in what passes for 'now' with Jason Blood, the desire to make sure one's skirt is demurely in place would seem almost archaically old-fashioned-- that really register to him. He gives the girl-- young woman-- a scrutinizing glance, taking in her wardrobe, and then a brief look up at the drifting basket. Well, unless the gravity shifts to a total inverse, he supposes it isn't going anywhere.

He settles for a stiff nod in answer to the girl's thanks.

"It was no trouble. And you did not. They weren't terribly informative anyway. That basket-- food? Or anything breakable?"

Brier looks at the basket and shakes her head. "No, sir. Thank you. It's my sewing." She turns back towards him and smiles slightly "All of the needles and pins are secure in pincushions. I don't think anyone will be hurt when it falls."

Now that her skirts are pinned between her and the railing, Brier dares to reach out a hand to offer to shake his.

"I'm Brier Delman," she says "And I think I may owe you a favor."

Jason gazes up at the floating basket a moment longer before looking back to the girl. (Young woman.)

He registers the extended hand a few seconds late, no doubt just when Brier is planning on dropping it in embarrassment. Jason clears his throat and takes it; his own hand is a bit overly warm to the touch. His handshake is impersonal.

"Jason Blood," he says brusquely, "and yes, I suppose that you do."

Jason's a great believer in favors: that ordered give-and-take makes the world go round. He gives Brier Delman another look, shrewdly assessing the clothes she's wearing.

"You're a seamstress?"

Brier looks down, awkward at the man's brusque manner.

People like Nora and Mr. Finch are spoiling you, Brier. She tells herself.

Some people might have expected Jason to tell them that it was no trouble. Brier is not such a person. The fact that she would help someone for nothing does not change the fact that she would never expect anyone to do the same for her.

She nods at his question. "That's not what I did in the place I came from, but it's how I support myself here. I also have a garden."

"Do you need some sewing done?"

Spike is stubborn. This is an understatement. But he's got enough sense to generally try to stay in an enclosed area when the gravity is wonky. In an enclosed area, you can actually sort of enjoy it-- doing great leaps and pushing the bounds of physics. Out in the open, you're suddenly reduced to general huddling and clinging.

Not exactly part of his mental image, huddling and clinging.

He's determined not to be stuck indoors, so he's been thinking about what astronauts do. Magnets, as he discussed with Mr Finch, are right not-- there's not enough magnetic surfaces to make them useful. But bungee...

Spike's got two lengths of bungee around his narrow waist, threaded through the belt loops. The bright orange and yellow looks a bit incongruous in place of the thick black leather belt. He's not wearing his beloved coat at the moment.

He's using a third piece of bungee, looped in his hands, to make his way slowly along. He's made his way to the opposite side of the footpath from Jason when he stops, hooking his hand-held tether to the belt, which allows him to remain moored to the handrail with his feet about four inches off the ground.

He pauses to catch his breath, rakes his hands through his hair, spies Jason.

"How you doing, Blood? Don't you know anybody with sense is safely indoors?"

Etrigan doesn't bother to warn him of the vampire's approach, so Jason starts fractionally at being addressed. He turns, though he knows what he'll see-- and offers the bleach-blond fellow a nod as minute as his jerk had been, an acknowledgment of the presence of another intelligent creature and little more.

"I suppose that they are." What's the line-- mad dogs and Englishmen...

Claire had quoted that one at him, more than once. Never mind she'd been far likelier than him to go out in the noon-day sun of various tropical locales.

He crouches, a hand firmly on the rail, to find another rock.

"You don't need oxygen, do you," he says, absently, as he finds a suitable one and straightens back up.

After a century-plus, Spike supposes he ought to have outgrown enjoying making humans startle. He reckons he ought to have outgrown a lot of things, so why be nit-picky? He grins a little when he sees Jason's fractional jerk. It's almost unnoticeable, he will give the old sorcerer that.

Spike bobs slightly, hanging comfortably in mid-air, turning to watch Jason as he turns to pick up a rock.

"Mind out, there. You lose your grip on that handrail and I'll have to rescue you. Then you'll really be narked off."

Spike unhooks his third cord again, looping it through the handrail and pulling himself along smoothly until he's about three feet from Jason. He fastens his self-imposed tether again and perches on the handrail.

"Strictly speaking, no." Spike remarks, in answer to the oxygen query.

He sits, facing away from Jason, bum a couple of inches above the handrail and Doc Martins dangling, in pensive silence. He stares up at the blackness above them.

"You been thinking about that as well, then?"

Edited 2016-11-15 18:15 (UTC)

"Thank you for the warning," Jason says, in tones that do not suggest he is actually grateful at all.

The vampire comes closer, which-- he supposes he could move away, but that will start a very irritating chain reaction, he supposes, of the vampire moving closer and his moving away and that would be deeply tedious. So he stays where he is, squints up at the blue 'day' sky, and chucks another rock... outward. It doesn't come down. He doesn't expect it to. It just goes, sailing up, and he watches, eyes drawn into slits, hand shading his gaze, as he tries to follow its progress.

"Mm?" His eyes remain on the rock until it disappears from sight, and then track back to Spike.

"Thinking about what? If the oxygen should give out? Not particularly."

Jason is as dry and prickly as ever. Spike supposes it's sort of comfortable that some things don't change.

He watches the rock make its ascent into the air, falling upward at a steady pace. With no friction to slow it down, it just continues up and up at the same rate of speed, until it's no longer visible.

He doesn't seem like the sort of chap who would just pitch rocks up into the sky for no reason, so Spike assumes there's some sort of method to this. He also assumes Jason's explanation is going to be about as satisfying as his explanations to any other questions Spike has asked, ever.

Jason's not the first person Spike ever knew who dislikes questions. Darla isn't particularly keen on them in general, unless she's in the right mood. Spike hadn't really considered that Jason disliked questions in general until recently, though. He thinks maybe Jason is one of those blokes who consider questions to be some sort of challenge.

So, although it feels very unnatural, he forces himself not to ask about the rocks. If Jason decides to explain, he'll explain. If not, well, if a bloke wants to chuck rocks at the sky, he supposes it's his own business.

"Well, I have been. Cheery little topic, innit? Just one of those little things to ponder when you're lying awake in the dark." Spike leans back a bit, enjoying the effects of zero-gravity. "Do you need oxygen?"

"I do." Jason stares up at the sky and his vanished rock. No flare of fire, no heat-trace of a miniature comet... Jason's grasp of atmosphere and space travel is-- not the best, but his theories, such as they are, seem borne out: the velocity of simply hurling a rock by hand is not enough to cause that atmospheric burn so notable when other things enter, or exit, the atmosphere. When gravity is a factor.

He leans his forearms on the railing, gazes down at the quartz rocks in the streambed.

"I suppose you could not survive in the vacuum of space," he muses after a few seconds. "Oxygen or no. You'd starve eventually, if nothing else."

Spike can feel Jason's presence, behind him and a little bit off to one side. He's very well-attuned to his body in space and to the proximity of other people to him. It's a vampire thing, part of why he's got extraordinary reflexes and why fighting is a sort of instinctive dance.

"I suppose that we've both got vested interests in making sure the oxygen keeps pumping nice and smoothly, then. People keep telling me we've nothing in common but you can see there's loads of common ground, really."

Without the coat, it's easier to see that Spike is not particularly big at all. The pale skin of his arms stands out in stark contrast to his black t-shirt, lean biceps stretching the fabric of the short sleeves. In Spike's time, young men achieved their final growth spurt comparatively later. By the standards of Jason's day, he is a little more than average height, by the standards of his own human life, he was just about middling height for a youth of the middle classes, on track to grow a few more inches if he'd lived long enough.

He is starting to attract attention when he drives, nowadays. Humans are maturing earlier nowadays, reaching greater heights and reaching them sooner. It's a rather sore subject.

Spike glances over at Jason, leaning on the rail, when he brings up the vacuum of space. He tugs himself down on his bungee tether until his bum is pressed against the rail, hooking his feet through the lower rail and bracing himself into place.

"There's that- and I read somewhere the boiling point of the fluids in your body is lower, so your blood would boil and you'd bloat up massively. There was some mention of lungs exploding as well. Cheery stuff, Jason. Penny for your thoughts."

It is fair to say that Spike is paying more attention to him than Jason is to Spike. He is... aware of the vampire, a bit like being aware of a toothache, now that he knows Spike is there, a dull throb on the edges of his senses, but he pays him no real mind. He has other things on his mind.

Holmes's words. His discussion with Kenobi. Questions of timing, and prudence, and if there are other options.

He's suffocated to death more than once (he thinks this in an abstracted sort of way, a dry fact from a book). He has never had the distinction of dying in outer space in the way the vampire describes, a bloated mass with internal fluids boiling away into space. It sounds painful.

But he'd die before he reached space. Probably. The air becoming too thin and too cold to breathe. If it operates anything like Earth's atmosphere... which, logically speaking, it cannot, because Earth's atmosphere is held to the surface of that blue-green marble by gravity, and the gravity is decidedly not working right now.

Which creates a problem for his plan, because if something other than gravity keeps all the air in place, that something might well stop his floating out to sea. (So to speak.) An anchor, a net, or-- a dome. Jason grimaces at this thought, and leans further down over the railing, briefly stretching his back from the accumulated tension before he straightens back up once more. Onto Plan... B was a long a time ago, he is probably in territory M or Q by now, he thinks.

Aloud, he says, "I was not aware we are on first-name terms now. I was considering the logistics of leaving this newest prison but they seem infeasible."

"Mr Blood. Sorry." The correction comes automatically, as automatically as the apology. As if he hasn't called Jason a slew of insulting nicknames centred around his surname or his hair-colour. "But you can call me Spike."

Spike frowns thoughtfully, glancing over at the big man leaning on the rail, face impassive as ever.

"What, leaving like that?" Spike gestures up toward the 'sky' and the path of the rocks. "Are you bar-"

If they're not on first-name basis, then Blood would probably take offense to innocent hyperbolic expressions, as well. He catches himself and reiterates, "You'd die."

Jason wonders distantly at the sudden sense of-- manners, for lack of a better word, but he's not displeased to find them there. It makes his life easier.

"I'm aware of that," he says expressionlessly. "Thus the infeasibility."

This is a lie. His dying is hardly the problem with the notion of sling-shotting himself into space. The notion that it might not work is different, because if there is a net or some other barrier, then his dying would accomplish nothing except freeing Etrigan, here, still stuck on this stupid rock, with these people.... and the whole point is to avoid that.

He sighs, to himself, because things are never simple, and he dislikes this 'spaceship' more than he had the other city, he thinks. There were certain illusions, there. There was his idiot sham job teaching history. There were things to occupy himself with, daily routines to follow, steps of a dance to bide his time with. There was coffee that actually tasted like coffee and there were bookstores.

If one is to be in an inescapable prison, he should prefer one that bothers to dress itself to his tastes than one that screams its unfamiliarity at every corner. But then again, the universe rarely takes his wishes into consideration so why should it start now?

He wrenches himself from this self-pitying train of thought and back into the conversation, or what passes for it:

"I don't think it should work anyway, in terms of being able to actually leave this... rock. Something is holding the air in, and it is not gravity, is it? There may be another sort of dome."

Bloody hell, is everyone on this stupid hulk going to crack up? Spike frowns thoughtfully, hands gripping the handrail, staring pensively out over the vista. The ship is, as usual, achingly beautiful. Beautiful and strange, and silent, yielding up nothing about itself.

He'd not have thought Mr Blood, of all people, would crack up. That's like thinking of Mr Kenobi losing his grip on things, and that's an idea that's so ludicrous he hardly wants to tempt fate by thinking it. Spike's smooth brow furrows.

It would explain a bit, he supposes, if he views Mr Blood's short temper as stemming from being depressed. Of course, he has to admit, he's given him reasons to be irritable, but still. It does sort of slot into place. Spike exhales thoughtfully.

He licks his lower lip. Blood is a fellow Englishman, Spike is torn between doing the decent thing and never speaking of it, and saying something, which of course, will risk the sorcerer getting in a strop.

He runs possible scenarios through his mind. Who would look after Harry. What about the Jedi. Don't leave me here with a shipful of Yanks. Who else would know what haggis is.

"I'm thinking of trying to put together a cricket team," Spike says. He has not actually thought of it until this moment.

This earns Spike a blank look. Jason's mind was on logistics: on a dome, on how one might go about ascertaining if there is a dome (or some other barrier), on whether puncturing the bag holding in the air might kill everyone else.... 'cricket' was not on, say, his top one-thousand topics he intended to entertain next.

So he stares, flatly, with as much comprehension as if Spike had begun to spout ancient Greek. Less, rather. Jason's rather good with ancient Greek.

"....well, I am sure that shall be diverting for you," he says after ten seconds of fruitless staring. "Please do not let me interfere with your search for players."

Players who are not Jason Blood.

Now Blood is giving him a flat look, as if he has got two heads. Or is a stupid childe. He exhales through clenched teeth, hanging onto the handrail. He reminds himself that this is a bloke who is apparently at the frayed end of his tether, and that he has to try and let things roll of his back.

He sighs, weighing whether he ought to mention why he was trying to create a distraction or not. It feels very unnatural not to address things. English, you're bloody English, you're good at glossing over and ignoring things.

"No, you're right. There's something holding the oxygen in, and lucky for us it is, innit. Ironic if it were another dome. Don't touch it, whatever you do. God, I think twenty people told me that on the very first day I turned up in that place. Do I look that much like a dome-botherer?"

He will discuss Jason's topic of choice, but he will do his best to inject a note of levity at least.

"Hnhm." Jason looks back up at the blue sky, but of course it doesn't tell him much about the nature of the hypothetical barrier. "You look like the sort of person who innately dislikes rules and bounds. Perhaps that would be why you got so many warnings."

Jason's voice is neutral and dispassionate, a colorless sort of voice, accented with the notes of the ex-patriate Briton-- the edges of crisp pronunciation rubbed off by long tumbling about with American English and other tongues, perhaps.

He crosses his forearms on the rail, gazes sidelong at Spike a moment, before returning that gaze out to look over the park.

"The dispenser blood is serving adequately?"

At least Jason is having the decency to roll with the conversational tide, and not question Spike's attempted segue. Isn't it so much easier when everyone is going along with the conversation ball rules.

Spike prefers to spice things up with a bit of light argument-- not serious, just arguing horseplay-- but he has seen that Jason dislikes that particular game and will not play it.

He frowns, thoughtfully. Was Jason already at the end of his tether in the other place? That would explain a lot.

Glancing over at the big man, leaning on the rail, Spike snorts softly at the dry remark. "It's the hair, isn't it. 'Gelus is always after me to grow it back out, let the curls have free reign. Reckons it would be like a sneak attack, make people get softened up seein' me lookin' like a flippin' Botticelli angel or some such bollocks and then my personality cutting through. Like a moray eel."

He raises his brows with a little grin, stealing a quietly assessing glance at Jason. He doesn't look any different than usual. But of course he isn't the type to telegraph it, is he?

He gives a little nod at the question about the dispenser blood. "So far, so good, ta. I'll know if it doesn't do any good when it becomes evident it's not working. But I reckon I've got a good week or two before that'll be noticeable."

The vampire.... talks about hair, and his father, and eels, or something, which Jason only vaguely processes. He keeps his feet wedged down against the planks of the walkway with some effort, and one arm wrapped around the rail, and with the other he rubs absently at the side of his head, the far side, away from the vampire.

let me out, let me taste
our newest mutual cage
i'll mark the walls and pace
the bounds placed upon our rage.

Hnh. Jason rolls his neck a little, side to side. Back in the other place he had taken to chopping wood. He supposes he should find something physical to do here. Once the gravity is sorted. If the gravity is sorted.

What are they talking about? Blood. Yes. Right.

"Mmm. Well. I shall keep my fingers crossed. Is there something with which I may assist you?"

Edited 2016-11-16 15:58 (UTC)

Jason's not the only one here who's at the end of his tether, not by a long chalk. Is Jason the type to express himself outward, so to speak? He doesn't seem the type to seek an audience. He seems like a big cat, the type that would go off on its own, far away, if it were wounded.

Spike rests his elbow on his thigh, face propped against his hand and the pinky finger of said hand idly in his mouth. He chews the fingernail lightly, not consciously aware of the tic.

And he isn't exactly problem-free, either. But there's no sense looking for trouble. So far, the blood from the dispensers seems to be doing fine. Oh, he's hungry all the time, sure-- the stuff is thin and unsatisfying, and it doesn't seem to matter how much of it he drinks. He's drunk himself sick and still felt the dull urgency of hunger.

But his strength seems to be as usual, and his speed, and stamina. If the blood weren't up to snuff, surely those would be affected. Of course, it's only been a short while, and he's got the constitution of a pit pony, as Angelus is so found of pointing out.

"I can stretch it a bit, with animals," Spike remarks, suddenly. "I can go three, maybe four, weeks, that way. Before it'll affect me."

He takes a little breath. There is no sense getting himself wound up over a stupid hypothetical. All the same, he supposes he'd better be serious about snooping about in the infirmary. At least he could ask some questions. If they use synthetic blood for human transfusions, surely it must be enough like human blood he'd be all right.

He swallows at the thought of human blood, and takes a little breath. In a light tone, he remarks, "Well, I'm going to try and blag some of the real stuff, if they've got any at the surgery. I'd appreciate it if you'd try not to set any fires."

"I suppose that's convenient," Jason says without commitment of any sort, and after a three second delay, to the ... confesssion? Admittance? Whatever-- regarding animal blood.

Then the vampire finally gets to the meat-- haa-- of the conversation. Jason offers a thin cynical half-smile.

"Oh, it is all yours. I've no desire to return there. Very well, then, splendid to have that sorted."

He lets go of the rail with one hand, turning in preparation for the stubborn walk-shuffle that one is having to use to get around right now, with the gravity acting up.

[Location - A park, during zero G]

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