| Sleeping With The Dead |
| Summary: | Sawyer and Cidra have a chat in a bit of a creepy setting. |
| Date: | 09 September 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None. |
| Players: |
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| Old Prison Block |
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| 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. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #195 |
Not many people venture into the old block of the prison, as it undoubtedly is the creepier part of the grounds. Maybe because of that fact (the creepy or the deserted) that Sawyer finds it the prime spot to hole up and do some writing. There's the soft bluish glow of her book light hooked up to her notebook, and her pen is scribbling away furiously at the tight-lined page. Down the hallway where it T's to connect with another cell block, the journalist's marine escort is occupying himself by flicking a deck of Triad cards, one by one, into his upturned helmet. Occasionally he misses, but typically he's spot on, which makes the game almost as boring as his escort detail.
Cidra's steps quietly for a woman in combat boots. So her venturing into the old block might not be noticed right away. But here she is venturing. On a stroll of her own volition, though she of course can't help but notice the soft bluish glow. So it's in that direction she turns her step. Sawyer, and her Marine friend, are recognized once she gets closer. "Who is winning?" she inquires wryly of the Marine and his Triad deck.
Sawyer flicks her glance up to Cidra, than over to the marine. If she was startled by the sudden appearance of the CAG, the only indication is the tightening curl of her fingers on the notebook she holds. "For the first hour or so, it was the helmet. I dare say, the field has evened going into hour three." There's a pause and then while she's talking again, she discretely flips the page of her journal to obscure what she's writing. "I don't really think it's neessary, the marine escort. Not like a bunch of jerky covered skeletons are going to rise up and chase me down the halls."
Cidra steps properly out of the shadows. Not that she's lurking, really, but she can make an effort to be unobtrusive when she wants to be. She makes no effort to peek at what Sawyer's writing. Though the page flip is, likely, noted. Folding her hands behind her back she leans one shoulder against the wall. Eyes angling down the hall to the cells, though she makes no actual effort to look inside them. "You think not? Not all the dead rest so soundly, Sawyer…" She seems perfectly serious. Albeit not particularly afraid of zombies. It's noted more somberly than anything else. "Anyhow. It is for your own protection. There are lively things on this planet one must needs watch out for. You pick an odd place to write."
"Mmm. More like lively people, who don't seem to keen on being rescued. I know he's down there to keep me out of trouble as much as save me for it, but I'm not offended." From her seat on the floor, Sawyer draws up her legs so she an rest the notebook on the raised tent of her knees. The shift in light casts a halo of pale illumination her face—the better to see you with, my dear. "I like the quiet. My thoughts are loud enough, I don't need anyone else adding to the cacophony."
"Not all we have found here are such as that," Cidra says, as to those who do and do not want to be rescued. "Those that are…I cannot say I do not understand, in a way." Faintest of smiles cracked at the Marine. "I presume he is doing a good job, since his Triad aim is improving. Were you causing a great fuss he would have less time to practice." It's something of a joke, though her underlying manner remains serious. "I did not mean to disturb you. It is…quiet here. Not peaceful precisely but…quiet."
"Not at all. I'm quite capable of putting down my pen for a friend. For a moment, at least. Pull up a square of concrete." In lieu of a chair, of course. Sawyer even clicks her pen closed, as promised. "Rare is the conversation I get to have where some one is not trying to use me as a mouthpiece, or alternatively, use their mouthpiece to yell at me." She shifts to peer down the hallway again to give a little wave at her would-be-babysitter who gives the two women an up-nod in acknowledgment and a muttered 'sir' before going back to his game. "He's doing a fine job. Even cleared his throat when I tried to pry open one of the cells and everything."
Cidra does not sit, but remains leaning against the wall. Still no effort made to peek at whatever the reporter's scribbling. Not even a hint of curiosity. But, she's got an excellent Triad face, so who really knows? "Do you want to go inside, then?" she asks. "The medics say it is not dangerous. That is, they are long past any sort of…disease."
"Only for some photographs. To understand." Even if Cidra peeked now, she'd only be greeted by a blank piece of paper. Even if Sawyer was writing something innocuous, consider it an old habit dying hard. "You know, they were just left in here. To rot. The guards just up and left them at the end of the world. Likely they starved to death, after resorting to drinking the stagnant water out of their unflushing toilets. Pleasant thought, isn't it? But then you have to think from the guards' point of view, where you're facing annihilation from dropping bombs and nuclear fallout, do you really want murderers and rapists elbowing right along with you as you struggle for survival."
"The medics say the ones in this block died of dehydration, yes," Cidra says. "Before they starved. Just left here. The ones in the new block though…that is even more fearful to think about. I am told they were shot." She can't suppress a shudder. "Maybe the guards thought they were doing them more of a mercy. Maybe…" But she does not speculate further. A shrug. "I did not want them…disturbed. But I suppose there is no harm in it. May do some good." A look to the Marine. "Open one of the cells, if Miss Averies still does wish to see."
The man springs to his feet, almost thankful for a task to do. He finds the key, hung with some others on a centrally located peg, then looks to Sawyer for confirmation that she is, indeed, still dumb enough to want to enter one of those death boxes. She nods, and eases to her feet to wait for the cell across from her to be cracked open. "Thank you, Cidra." She takes her notebook, and her little light, and traipses the short distance to duck into the cell that's been opened for her. "Thanks." She mutters as she passes the Marine. "Now close it. And lock it. And if you both don't mind? Leave me for the night. Just…don't forget me in the morning, hmm?"
Cidra blinks at Sawyer. Visibly surprised. Not a thing that happens often. But she nods. "All right," she says simply. A look to the Marine. "Stay here tonight unless your NCO calls you elsewhere. Open it in the morning promptly." With that, she will indeed leave Sawyer to it.
Sawyer ghosts a smile at the CAG, then takes a step back for the door to be secured. Her nose wrinkles at the smell in the small confines, but she seems intent on her course. And with that, Sawyer turns to step deeper into the cell, to join the dead in his final resting place. At least for one evening.