Nicholas Rush (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lottawork) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
applesaucedream2014-12-13 07:57 pm
lottawork) wrote in applesaucedream2014-12-13 07:57 pm
Entry tags:
starships were meant to fly [open to multiple]
The shuttle's base plating is proving particularly difficult. Rush redoubles his efforts to pry it loose and throws all his weight on the crowbar, or the Ancient equivalent of a crowbar, until with a satisfying, groaning metallic clunk, it disengages. He levers it off, tosses it aside, and within seconds is elbow-deep in the innards of the shuttle. Assorted chunks of aged machinery come clanging out as Rush removes piece after piece of the shuttle's internal architecture, regards each with distaste, and flings them over his shoulder to join their fellows.
Destiny is falling apart. When isn't it? But now life support isn't responding, and the rest of the ship isn't responding, it's pitch-dark and dropping in temperature and oxygen levels and the steady creep of hypoxic terror has begun to settle around his ears and in the delicate parts of his chest cavity, but the shuttles run on an auxiliary system that operates separately from Destiny's central network so Rush can cannibalize the shuttles and interface their systems with Destiny's and grit his teeth and hope that will be enough of a stopgap measure until he can rig something better. An inelegant solution to an inelegant problem. As flawed as the fucking Dirac sea Destiny theoretically floats in.
Rush emerges triumphant, desired machinery part in hand, and cuts an unsteady path out of the shuttle and into the unfriendly darkness of the ship itself, shadows steel-edged and sharply cut into graceful swell and curves of its walls. His own destination (at this he smirks transparently, an uninspired pun fed into a neurologically empty space without enthusiasm) is the control interface room, the aphotic nucleus of the ship's function, where he may optimistically begin repairs. Optimistically. Realistically, Rush expects he will die here. One man, even an exceptionally brilliant cryptographer slash scientist, cannot hope to perform the work required of ten, but Rush isn't about to let the discovery of a fucking lifetime wink out of a painfully long existence simply by virtue of not having the right parts. The injustice to that is fucking absurd.
The central column of the interface room is dead when he reaches it, an acharacteristically dim pillar that, last Rush saw it, had been lit in a spectrum of whites and blues. The striae comprising its wired core are cool and lifeless when he rests one palm against them.
He gives his head a small, firm shake in an effort to dislodge the mental detritus of protracted wakefulness. It has been hours, or it feels like hours. Finite resources have not been kind to him; he's been operating without stimulant unless one counts adrenaline, which Rush does not because running on adrenaline is practically his baseline.
The dull ring of footsteps successfully derails any irrelevant trains of thought. Rush half-turns before deciding whichever unlucky crewmember has been sent to ask useless things of him isn't worth devoting the neural space to. They never are.
[ooc: Welcome to Manhattan, Rush. This is his first night so the Rift has decided to pitch him in head first. He's going to be dashing around trying to fix Destiny, the super-cool old ship he's been stranded on for the past four to five years. Feel free to run into him!]
Destiny is falling apart. When isn't it? But now life support isn't responding, and the rest of the ship isn't responding, it's pitch-dark and dropping in temperature and oxygen levels and the steady creep of hypoxic terror has begun to settle around his ears and in the delicate parts of his chest cavity, but the shuttles run on an auxiliary system that operates separately from Destiny's central network so Rush can cannibalize the shuttles and interface their systems with Destiny's and grit his teeth and hope that will be enough of a stopgap measure until he can rig something better. An inelegant solution to an inelegant problem. As flawed as the fucking Dirac sea Destiny theoretically floats in.
Rush emerges triumphant, desired machinery part in hand, and cuts an unsteady path out of the shuttle and into the unfriendly darkness of the ship itself, shadows steel-edged and sharply cut into graceful swell and curves of its walls. His own destination (at this he smirks transparently, an uninspired pun fed into a neurologically empty space without enthusiasm) is the control interface room, the aphotic nucleus of the ship's function, where he may optimistically begin repairs. Optimistically. Realistically, Rush expects he will die here. One man, even an exceptionally brilliant cryptographer slash scientist, cannot hope to perform the work required of ten, but Rush isn't about to let the discovery of a fucking lifetime wink out of a painfully long existence simply by virtue of not having the right parts. The injustice to that is fucking absurd.
The central column of the interface room is dead when he reaches it, an acharacteristically dim pillar that, last Rush saw it, had been lit in a spectrum of whites and blues. The striae comprising its wired core are cool and lifeless when he rests one palm against them.
He gives his head a small, firm shake in an effort to dislodge the mental detritus of protracted wakefulness. It has been hours, or it feels like hours. Finite resources have not been kind to him; he's been operating without stimulant unless one counts adrenaline, which Rush does not because running on adrenaline is practically his baseline.
The dull ring of footsteps successfully derails any irrelevant trains of thought. Rush half-turns before deciding whichever unlucky crewmember has been sent to ask useless things of him isn't worth devoting the neural space to. They never are.
[ooc: Welcome to Manhattan, Rush. This is his first night so the Rift has decided to pitch him in head first. He's going to be dashing around trying to fix Destiny, the super-cool old ship he's been stranded on for the past four to five years. Feel free to run into him!]
no subject
Based on the guy's outfit, casual clothes should be good, right? Topher can't quite decide if he should try to blend in, pretend he's supposed to be here, or if that would be really easy to see through and would just make him seem unreliable. Maybe just play it by ear, tell it like it is if asked? No, it's far too difficult for him not to comment on the location.
He steps forward towards guy, who seems quite unwilling to acknowledge Topher, despite obviously noticing him. Topher gives a low, impressed whistle at their surroundings. "Shiny spaceship. It is yours?" he asks cheerfully.
no subject
"I'm busy, Eli, why don't you -"
No. Not Eli.
Rush eyes the newcomer suspiciously. He doesn't recognize him but this is not atypical for him. He can delineate a rough dozen individuals on Destiny whom he can name due to said individuals occasionally being marginally useful.
"Who are you? Did the Colonel send you? You can tell him I'm sorry I'm not working fast enough for him, no I'm not doing it on purpose, and that Ancient ships don't come with fucking manuals. Tell him he should try being fucking patient." He jabs a finger at the civilian's eye level then readdresses the unresponsive console. Even the heads-up displays have gone dead, which is exactly what all of them fucking need. Is he going to have to form a workaround for those too?
no subject
"Can I help?" he offers, stepping up to what looks like the control panel, looking curiously over it, at the moment more interested in the surroundings than the man. He manages to resist poking the console. "I'm very clever and learn quickly," he adds brightly. Perhaps a bit too brightly.
no subject
Rush shakes stinging fingertips, scowling at the obstinate console with eyes narrowed.
It occurs to him that the civilian is still speaking despite the tacit dismissal.
"You," repeats Rush, the words saturated in suspicious disbelief. "Do you have a degree in higher mathematics? Some understanding of Ancient technology we have yet to achieve?" His voice lowers, an active attempt to suppress the surging aggravation aimed primarily at unresponsive ship and, in addition, this new obstacle. "If you were the least bit clever you'd have already been assigned to me. Uneducated yet brilliant minds don't spring from the fucking woodwork."
Not more than once, anyhow. Eli had been an anomaly.
no subject
"Well I didn't say uneducated," he answers with a bit of a smirk. "Ph.D. in cognitive neuroscience my main deal, though. No degree in higher mathematics, but a solid understanding. Also the application of it to developing and building new technologies. Just not... this particular technology."
no subject
The civilian is still talking, dragging Rush's thoughts back into their unbearable helix of unproductivity.
"What?" he ratchets out, the syllable lacking the usual bite of frustration. "Someone on Destiny with a marginally applicable skillset? I was unaware such a creature existed." Employing someone of those alleged expertises sounds perfectly reasonable, and therefore it's overwhelmingly likely that it did not occur to anyone, much less the Colonel.
no subject
"Yeah, well, I was busy checking out the woodwork, yanno?" he answers with a grin.
no subject
As off-putting as this encounter is, prioritizing is sacrosanct in these circumstances. Thus, restructuring the ship's internal systems so that the entire crew and, by extension, himself, don't asphyxiate in their quarters unquestionably takes priority. He drops and rolls to his back to attack the console's underbelly, attempting to prize away some of the plating so he may access the wirework within.
"How is it you were overlooked?" he snaps, fingernails scrabbling ineffectively against the molded metal. Growling, he slams at the thing with a force greater than what is strictly requisite. "The science team sorted itself immediately and you're only approaching me with this now?" After - years?
Years?
Years. Probably. Possibly. Likely. Not particularly relevant.
Rush hasn't been keeping track.
no subject
"Well, I, sorta wasn't here before," he answers, bending over and tilting his head to see what Rush is trying to do. Then he reaches over and pulls the plating off with a metallic snap, in a way that probably shouldn't be possible, certainly not that easily.
no subject
Thrown, he rolls to his feet, braces one arm against the console for support and rubbing vigorously at the throbbing section of his head with the other.
"Where did you come from?" he demands, paranoia sharpening. "We don't get fucking stowaways." Not several billion light years from Earth. Not aside from those of the distinctly nonterrestrial variety. Which, again, is also largely unrelated.
He is fairly certain this man is human, he is - he is reasonably certain. He had better be human. He shouldn't have been able to achieve that directive so easily, unless Rush has miscalculated his own wariness which is - entirely possible. Fuck. So which is it?
no subject
"Well, um. This isn't actually real," he explains. "It's a dream. You're dreaming," he adds. He can elaborate further, but he wants to give that statement a few moments to sink in before he goes on. He still feels like he should know the guy, but Topher's never been great with names or faces. Or people in general.
tw: mild panic, self-harm
Rush breathes. Deep, cleansing. The expansion and contraction of lungs. Of physical lungs. Lungs that exist in a very empirical sense. He can verify this. It is fine. He can verify it. He can. He will. He can verify it. He knows the criteria of a simulated reality, he merely needs to deconstruct the linear flow of time and -
And there is no linear flow of time. There is no linear flow of time, because he cannot remember where he was before this. Nor before that.
The conclusion is measurable. Fuck. It's measurable.
Rush slides his arm away from the console, picks up the discarded piece of plating and considers it with mechanical detachment. He studies the thin, sharpened edge. This will serve its intended purpose.
Careful, deliberate, Rush draws the edge of the plate across his palm and slices it open. His breath curls out in a broken, pressurized hiss as he flicks sprays of startling crimson from his fingertips. It feels. It feels real. But time is not linear. Heuristic variables are contradictory. The conclusion is not measurable, his method of measurement is not absolute, there is no conclusion that can be reached and he understands with a creeping, clinging iciness that this must mean none of his previous, poor attempts for reality litmus tests have been successful, merely propagated by the existence he happened to inhabit, and there is no definitive method for distinction.
But he can verify it.
But it feels real.
But he can verify it.
no subject
"Um. Would you like me to prove it?" he offers, since he guesses that was the purpose of what the guy was trying to do. And, well, that's hardly difficult. Or, either it's a dream, or Topher has ridiculous illusionary powers. Which he sadly doesn't.
no subject
"Impossible, apparently," he answers lightly, and the words sound faint to him. He has achieved a distance, possibly from himself. The ship appears to be working again, the engines engaging in their hollow drones of efficiency, but that hardly matters. It can't. It doesn't.
Did it ever?
He presses his thumb into the disappointingly shallow cut, grits his teeth to the resultant piercing nervous response. Pain is not a theoretical concept. How can it exist in a theoretical space? The two concepts are not veridically aligned.
no subject
no subject
He will need to, first, define 'real'.
"How," whispers Rush, his own subtly shaking frame disrupting the cadence of his speech, "is one meant to differentiate between strata?"
no subject
"Don't worry, you can train yourself to," he answers reassuringly. "There's a certain... feeling, like an instinct, but it can take a while to recognise it."
Although this is probably moot if this guy isn't actually in Manhattan. If you're close to the Rift, you end up in these all the time, but if you're dragged in from who knows where, it's a bit more rare. Well, as far as he can tell. It's not like Topher could contact anyone again to ask if they're not people who've come through the Rift.
"Anyway. I'm Topher. Um. I don't suppose you've recently fallen through a rift in space and time and ended up in Manhattan?" he asks, making a face. Very weird question to ask if he hasn't, but it needs to be established for Topher to explain further. Or determine if he NEEDS to explain further, really.
no subject
Because if this, if this is not real, how is he meant to accept all subsequent self-proclaimed realities henceforth? How is he meant to develop an instinct when all previous methods of differentiation have fractured, spun away, become inoperable.