| Pinholes and Shadows |
| Summary: | Sawyer is far more successful making a pinhole camera than Trask is forming a shadow puppet. |
| Date: | 01 Sep 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None in particular; Saggie ones in general |
| Players: |
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| Tihar Penitentiary - Old Prison Block - Sagittaron |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #187 |
| Built from the stone the original inmates cut from the quarry over a century ago, the original prison is a dark and monolithic structure. Flaking paint crumbles from the claustrophobic corridors, each cell block filled with rows of massive wood-and-iron doors with narrow eyeslits. Deeper within the prison block lay the communal cells, little more than filthy, fortified cisterns; deeper still are the rooms with thick, soundproofed doors and implements of corporal punishment and interrogation the civilized world pretends never existed at all. |
Nothing like a creepy prison at night, where the cells are filled with jerky covered skeletons and the generator is KIA so there's no main electricity source to be found. The night's sky sheds some light into the long cell block row, casting eerie shadows on the concrete floor. Stretched in front of one of the cell doors, Sawyer occupies a bit of floor with a five aluminum cans still strung on their little plastic doohickey sitting in her lap. She peels one off of its respective rings, the Dionysus' Star Lite label looking a little sun-bleached and even slightly rusted. The journalist pops the top with a rather unclimactic whisper of carbonation, and she sniffs at it experimentally.
Nothing like an industrial grade heavy flashlight in a creepy prison at night, where the cells are filled with jerky covered skeletons and the generator is KIA so there's no main electricity source to be found. Trask may no longer formally rank among the knuckledraggers or snipes, but he retained some of his toys from back in the day. If the movement of the light is any indication, he appears to be in no rush, but he also is seemingly searching for something… or someone. "Scoop? Ya in here?"
There's a scrape of boot as Sawyer draws up her leg, tenting it at the knee to rest her arm over the raised perch. There's a span of silence otherwise, when she no doubt is debating the merits of answering. Finally, she must recognize the voice or err on the side of formal search parties. "Yeah! I'm down here!" Her eyes squint against the invasion of excess light as it sweeps closer, having otherwise been content to sit in the darkness with her ancient five pack of beer. "Here. Come drink one of these." No question as to whether or not he's on duty or not, that might be his qualm but not hers.
Old habits die hard. One of the habits he acquired when stationed aboard the Victory was to never remove his combat gear when not safely within the confines of the assaultstar. That means there's no visual cue as to what his current duty status is. With the light tilted downwards, perhaps to prevent blinding the reporter, Bootstrap makes his way over. "Doesn't smell as bad in here as I expected. Then again, I might just be scent blind." The corpses may be jerky but they surely left a fair amount of excrement before becoming such. Not even certain what Sawyer is actually offering, he comments, "I think prison cuisine might be even worse than what we get in the galley."
Sawyer takes a sip from the can she's already opened, her nose wrinkling sharply with the first taste. "It appears to be some leftover beer from one of the guard stations. A bit skunky but… drinkeable." She sets hers aside and then snicks off another from its plastic holder. Laid on its side, it gets rolled in his direction with a quiet whirwhirwhir noise on the rough concrete. "Guess if you smelled one dead guy, you've smelled them all. Were you looking for me, or is this happy coincidence?" She goes back to trying to drain her beer as quickly as possible in thick audible (almost painful sounding) gulps.
"Nah," he deadpans, "I'm just goin' 'round places and randomly calling out if anyone's in there. Sheer coincidence that you were the one here when I cycled back to your name." As the can rolls towards him, Trask stops it with his left foot and nudges right back to the reporter. "You'll likely need t'drink all those cans to forget the taste." That said, he starts peering about, letting the light cut fleeting swathes across the darkness. "So, judging by your choice in scenery, I'm guessin' you're a depressive drunk." Drier than the human jerky on the bones.
"Lucky me." Comes Sawyer's quick retort, right before she winces as the can hits her leg. Not at the impact, but more likely the rejection. "Not in the slightest. I typically drink, take off my top, and dance on the table. But I need the cans and it seems like a waste to just pour it out." She makes a swipe of her lips, peers into the can, and then up-ends it to shake out the last drops into wet little splotches on the ground. "So. Now you found me, what are you going to do to me?" There's a smirk that threatens, but she keeps it in check while she fiddles with the multiple pockets of her marine issued gear until she comes up with a little multi-tool set and she flips out a little hooked can opener. Stabbing aluminum, she starts to cut and pry off the lid.
What's he going to do to her? "Well, you're already gettin' yourself on the road of drunken toplessness, so that just leaves me to loiter until you introduce me to your tits." Scampishly, he smirks, but the sight is lost in the lack of light. Based on his tone of voice, however, it's easy enough to envision. "I'm not sure how well you hold your liquor, though, so I suppose I can pass the time by askin' why you need the cans." Upon hearing the sound of stabbed aluminum, Trask moves to sit next to the blonde and sets down the flashlight, drily quipping, "Try not to cut yourself." Which she is less likely to do with the illumination.
"What's a little blood in the name of science?" Sawyer's quiet for a moment, content to concentrate on her task at hand though there is a murmured 'thanks' when he adds some extra light into the mix. After a long hack-job of jagged metal, she finally separates the top of the can from the body of it. "I'm making a pin-hole camera. Several, actually." Her tongue makes a distracted pass over her bottom lip and then she's looking in her belongs for something else. "Switch that light off real quick for me."
"Fine, but it comes back on the moment you're ready to take off your top." Whether or not he's serious, he is decidedly incorrigible. The light also is turned off.
There's a snort in the darkness, now a bit more consuming after the sudden shift in illumination. "I was being facetious about the topless thing. Don't get your hopes up too high." There's a crinkle of paper, and another sound that seems as if she's punctured the can again. Then she's shifting to her feet to feel around until she's in the little window peering into the cell. "This'll only take a few seconds, then I'll let you switch your light back on. I know you're afraid of the dark." One beat, two beats. "So why were you looking for me, again?"
Without missing a beat, Kal quips back, "I'd heard a rumor that you get half-naked when you've had enough to drink. Clearly, I've been misled." Odds are that isn't at all the reason why he's possibly looking for her. "Even so, I suppose I should stick around to make sure you don't get eaten by zombies or something." How gallant. "Pin-hole camera, huh? How's that work?"
"How gallant of you. Even if your chivalrous motivations are driven by the notion you may see my tits, slim or no chance as it may be." There is some humor creeping into the blonde's tones, "So. Pinhole camera. You take a small enclosed dark space. Insert photographic paper, and then you expose a small hole — aptly named a pinhole — and by that small exposure of whatever light source through the hole, you'll get an inverted image of the whatever you're trying to capture on the paper with in. So I let this little puppy soak up the dim moonlight, close it back up, and then later take it back to the ship to develop." At the end of her explanation, she's already working on closing this one little 'camera' off. "Voila. I have a delightfully macabre image of the cell. So was that actually interesting, or are you just feinting it?"
"Hmm— what?" Beat. "Sorry. I was imagining what kind of undergarments you prob'ly wear." Second beat, following by faux innocence. "So, pinhole camera?" Trask jests, but she was asking for it when she asked that question of hers. Then, without warning, he flashes on the light. Then off. Then on. Then off. "What happens if there isn't absolute darkness?" Okay, now he's being an impish ass.
During one of those 'off' clicks, there's a thwack to his shoulder from Sawyer's backhand. "Nothing as long as the film is in the container at the time. Nevermind. I'll do this later." When there is less distraction. There's a crinkle as she wads up a piece of paper in her hand and she sends it flinging across the hall. Obviously, that one was ruined. "Continue. But I expect shadow puppets." With that, she plunks her butt down on the ground and resumes work on that gods-awful beer.
<FS3> Trask rolls Shadow Puppets: Terrible Failure.
"Yeah, well, I was told there'd be a titty show but that's not happening either." Ever so droll. Even so, he lets out an exasperated huff that is purely for show. "Fine. But only as a gesture of goodwill." Trask aligns the flashlight so it shines against the wall as best as it can considering these squalid cells lack beds. This already isn't looking good. For a moment, his brow furrows as he tries to determine how, exactly, to make a shadow puppet. In the end, he just splays one hand, palm to the illumination, and bobs said hand up and down. "Gobble, gobble." The lackluster sound effects really don't make it seem any more of a turkey. It might be hard to believe this actually is his best possible effort. Alas, it is.
Sawyer let's out a startled hiccup of laughter, a sharp bark of amusement that seems to startle even her and echoes off the tight walls of the corridor. She covers her mouth with the curve of her hand, hiding her smile behind the ball of a fist. "You really are horrific at that. Please… please. Don't quit your day job." Giggles overtake her for a moment, that she's trying hard to squelch.
There is a moment of silence that gets punctuated with a petulant, "Fine." Indeed, it's possible that he might genuinely be upset. The nature of his sense of humor does not tend to lend itself to clarity. "Since you're such a critic, school me. Show me how it's done." Oh ho. A challenge has just been issued. Bootstrap is telling you to bring it, Averies.
Sawyer is about a fourth of the way through her second beer when she snorts. Painfully. There might even be a dubious moment where she might spray tepid putrid beer out in a fine mist but at the last moment she's able to swallow. "Oh no no." She sets aside her beer and eases herself back to her feet. "I tell you what. I'll leave you here to practice while I go find a place to relieve myself. Which is the polite way to say, this beer makes me need to pee like a race horse. Pardon."
"I suppose I can settle for a gander at your ass," is laboriously sighed, complete with dramatic eye roll from the man, when the blonde announces her need to pee. What Scoop doesn't actually see is the wry, disapproving look the drinking inspires, although she just might hear the sound of cans being opened and their contents poured out.