Log:More Questions Than Answers
Even still, the Hunter is wearing shorts every damn day. Today is the same as the last. And the one before. Today they're gray with black piping and the top is a black, fitted tee. She steps out of her room in socks; no sneakers on. The insistence on shoes every day must have been a Maata thing because now it's sort of hit or miss. She must have left already once for the day because no cat darts out between her feet... Pants is already off somewhere else. The door is closed behind her and she stops, looking down at the other doors in the hall. Her gaze lingers on one or another, thoughtful. Considering. She turns to look back at the imagery on her own, lifting a hand to trace over the image of a woman crouched with a bow and arrow.
The Bravo hasn't spent much time out of his room since he woke back up in the Facility. While Hunter examines her door, his swings open hard enough to hit whatever's behind it. He comes out in black sweat pants and a gray muscle shirt, jaw clenched and knuckles bleeding. His intention was probably to go to the dining room, but he pauses when he sees the woman. He's not scowling at her, though, he just happens to be staring at her while he's scowling.
The door swinging wide and slamming as it does causes the Hunter to jump -- just slightly -- and pivot on a heel. She stares at the Bravo for a long moment. Her eyes widen just a bit and she blinks. She doesn't recall seeing him the last trip through this place and chances are... she expected him to be one of those she wouldn't see. One of those who just fades away. Becomes part of the background. A person lost in the... whatever that place was. "Graves," she says in a voice quiet with surprise. The woman known as Michel Thorne stands a bit straighter.
There's no sheen of white industrial plastic where her lower left leg is. Just smooth, golden flesh. Same as her right. She lifts her chin slightly, watching him for a moment. Her eyes drop to his hands where they bleed. There's a small, faintly bemused smile. "Those will be fine in the morning."
Leaving the door open, the Bravo starts moving toward her, his gaze dropping down to her legs, lingering on the one that shouldn't be there, before it starts making its way slowly back up to her face. His scowl has turned into more of a furrowed brow, "What the fuck, Michel." It's rhetorical. He obviously didn't expect to be running into her here. "This one yours?" he nods to the door, adding, "Would've been knocking on it if I knew who might be answering." Maybe punching his walls less, but that's debatable.
"Yeah," the Hunter says, looking back to the door in question. It might be one of the more 'obvious' ones, but even that's debatable all things considered. A woman crouched in the brush, clutching her bow. Maybe if he'd known her on the island, connected the dots. Maybe not. She wasn't at all similar in personality between there and here. Her personality here is more akin to Thorne, but even so there's differences. The accent is similar, but still not quite. Her carriage is similar, but still not quite. Even her style of dress.
Leaning on the door, she opens it, revealing the room beyond. A double-bed, neatly made. Concrete floor with some exercise mats tucked up under the bed. It's a rather large room, just as all the rest. But what dominates it are the weapon and equipment racks. Some on the walls, some just shelving units, a workbench or two. A hunter, SpecOp, or survivalist paradise. Weaponry. Hunting gear. A plethora of it. Guns. Climbing gear. Rope. Shovels. On and on.
What there isn't, however... is ammunition. Or sharp edges. "This place offers more questions than answers," she says bluntly.
He only gives the image on the door a quick study before she's opening it. The Bravo doesn't wait for any further invitation and moves to step past her to get a decent glance around. He'll at least wipe his knuckles off on his shirt so he's less likely to get blood on any of her things. "You even know how to use all this shit?" he asks with a glance back at the woman who doesn't look all that dangerous or threatening, even if he remembers well her ability to use a rifle.
Taking a few steps, the Hunter follows him in and stands just inside the doorway with her back up against the wall. She sets a foot back against the baseboard as added balance. She looks over it all and gives a small shrug. "I think so. I can name it all if I think about it. I feel confident with it. But can I tell you why and how? No. I can only remember from when we began searching the Sevastopol debris field to waking up here. Same with when I got to the island up until I died there and woke up here. I have no other... real memories. Michel's life before the Noc is like some sort of dream. Same as Maata's."
The woman pushes away from the wall to meander over, standing alongside him. "But I can tell you that-" she points to a knife that from afar looks sharp enough, but up close is blunt, "is a Gerber Mk 2. And that-" another gun is gestured to, "is a Colt Python. And up on the wall over there is a Winchester Model 1901."
Excuse him if he moves a bit closer to feel at the edge of the knife she points out, just to check, before stepping back again. He glances down at her, then back at the weapons. "I feel like I should know what some of it is." But he apparently can't name a damned thing. "Wait. Maata?" You know when you hear something but don't process it right away? "Who's Maata?" The Bravo's looking at her again, full attention.
She doesn't fault him for checking the knife. She's gone through most of it. And again. Probably even this incarnation, too. That need to be sure. Doubly sure. Triply sure? The Hunter watches. She looks back to the Bravo at the question. "Maata," she repeats. "Some of us lived another life before the Noc," she explains, albeit a bit awkwardly. She runs her tongue over her lower lip, looking away. "There was this... music festival. On an island. Some... thing for rich kids. But these undead... skeletons attacked. Began killing people. I died- I think while being airlifted off the island on a helicopter. It's... it's hard to remember sometimes." She swallows.
"A few of us were talking to this guy. It was his fault. And he... blew up the trailer we were in. We barely survived. And next thing I knew I was waking up while being loaded onto the helicopter, but I knew... I knew it was rigged too and there was fire and- then-" She gestures broadly. "I'm here. I'm here and people who had died before me were here. And soon other people are showing up, too." She who was Thorne turns to the door, gesturing. "Those same people, some of them, are here again. I have known Rhys Driscoll in two lives now. Same with Kylie Shorley. And... a handful of others. Maybe more who I haven't seen yet."
His brow furrows as he listens, like he's not the sort of man who enjoys being in the dark. Who knows, already, that he's not going to find the answers he wants. No matter how hard he punches his stupid walls. "I don't remember a festival. I only remember the Noc. Where the fuck was I?" Great, thanks for giving him more questions. Maybe he's already given up on the 'where the fuck am I' question.
She told him that this place gives more questions than it does answers. "You aren't the only new face," the Hunter says quietly. "One of the Weyland scientists, Sterling, is here. She wasn't on the island as far as I know." Any anger building up in the Bravo doesn't seem to phase her. She looks up at him, considering for a moment. There's a lingering bit of thought. She knows the anger he has and maybe this offering is dangerous, but then... She was the dangerous one last time. The one others were a bit -- and often -- cautious around. "Any harm done here -- to you or others -- is reset in the morning. You sleep, you wake up whole. Your hands..."
The Hunter reaches out for one of them, bloody knuckles and all. "Will be fully healed tomorrow. As if you never hit anything at all." She takes a deep breath and lets go. "This goes for death, too." She steps back a bit, looking off and away, jaw tightening a little. "Ramona was here before. She's... she wasn't very nice. To me at least. She pushed us into killing her. She wanted me to. I twisted the knife. I made sure she was dead." And then the woman that was Michel looks back to him, directly. "The next day, she was alive again. This place traps us here. No matter what."
He looks down at his hand when she takes one of them. Wild-eyed isn't the most flattering look a man the Bravo's size could wield, but that's more or less where he is right now. It's difficult to tell how he takes that bit of knowledge, but he seems more disturbed by the fact that the dead come back than that the Hunter is telling him she helped kill someone. More than the fact that he knew Ramona, and that he knew she was a synth. But she's not?
His hand turns in hers enough to grab hold of it. If he squeezes a bit too hard while he's feeling the bones and tendons in there, he's at least not trying to hurt her. Though he might be thinking about it. "Has anyone killed themselves?" Obviously that's the question that follows.
If the way he holds her hand so tightly hurts her, the Hunter doesn't reveal that fact. She just watches him in return. "I assume they're not synthetics anymore," she offers quietly, in case he's thinking it. She leans back a little, though not so much as to wrench her hand away. Just so she can look down at her leg. "My leg is no longer a cybernetic. And... she was flesh and blood the first time." The woman settles back on her feet, exhaling in a rush, nostrils flaring.
"She did. Ramona. I mean, she claims to have. Before we killed her. Said she killed herself and woke up the next day and I-" the Hunter clears her throat and looks away. "I wanted to know if it was real. True. That she was being honest. So she demanded I kill her. Right then and there. In front of everyone. I didn't want to, then. She got mad. Later told me it broke her heart... and made Conrad- uh, Rhys do it instead. That was... when I ended up twisting the knife. Finishing the deed."
The Bravo only holds onto her hand long enough to be reasonably certain, with his lack of expertise, that there's a human under that skin. Then he lets it go, looking down at her leg and back up. "Should've told her to do it again herself," is his take on all of that. "This place is fucked up. This isn't how shit works. How do we even know it's real?" As opposed to what, he doesn't say. But even with his lack of memories beyond what just happened on the Noc and his last, brief stay here, he knows it's Not Right.
There's a sort of helpless shrug from the Hunter as she looks back over her room. "I don't know that it is real," she says in a quiet voice. "I thought it was. Last time I thought I was Maata. I thought it was just... something that came after the Island. The afterlife. Some sick government experiment. Something. I was just glad to have people I knew and cared about here. But now?" She crosses one arm over her chest, grabbing at the opposite shoulder. It's a somewhat defensive, uncertain gesture. Rather unlike Thorne, really.
"Now I don't know. It's like trying to reconcile two different people and it's..." She takes a deep breath. "I mean." There's a look to him, corners of her eyes creasing a bit. "You're just you. But some of them, they're also two people. And I don't know who is who or... what or how to approach it. It's all fucked."
There's something about that moment of vulnerability that drains the agitation out of the Bravo. He looks like he might want to hold her or something, but he doesn't make that move toward her. He just stands there, listening. Then, "We'll figure it out. We'll get out of here. No matter how many times I die trying. I promise." Do promises even mean anything here? Regardless, there's a flicker of a smile, probably meant to be comforting, that pulls at one corner of his mouth for just a moment.
There's a look up at the Bravo as he makes that promise and the Hunter's brows tilt into a slight furrow as she studies him. She lingers in silence for a time, considering. There's a slight step in towards him, her fingertips touching at his chest, just briefly. "I'm not sure promises are a good thing to make here," she says quietly. "So much can change between one waking to the next." There's a deep intake of breath before she releases it. A smile follows; one clearly plastered on. Fake. The sign of everything being locked down now.
"There's two doors out there. Weren't there before. Who knows. Maybe they'll unlock soon and let us all go free?" She turns towards the open door of her room and starts ambling towards it. "I think it's time for a strong drink and something to smoke. Wanna join me?"
The Bravo glances around the room again before his attention goes to the door and he starts following her back out into the hallway. "Strong drinks sound good." He touches his shirt with smears of dark, dried blood absently, perhaps meaning to change it now that he's a little more calm than when he first came out of his room. Then he's turning to head toward his own door.