Log:Once in a Lifetime
The Martyr is wearing a purple and black striped silk shirt and black parachute pants with purple high top sneakers. He leaves his room, but pauses as he passes the Addicts's Door. He presses his hand flat against the sygil and touches his forehead to the door a long momment, then starts towards the common area.
The Rogue is making his way back down the hall looking restless and about as well slept as he ever does. The dress style is still relaxed as ever and what seems to be consistent is how many pockets the man truly can fit casually into one outfit. The stride in his pace is long, fingers pressed to his forehead rubbing int in distraction moving through the hall almost veering around Martyr when there is an abrupt about face. "There you are, bru. Just saved me a trip. C'mon." And with that he gestures back to the parlor.
The Martyr starts and then follows. "Have you met the new guy yet? His accent is a little like yours, only with more England and less slang, maybe."
The Rogue walks with some long strides and follows the conversation pausing, "Marc's here?" There's some confusion and very much a look of concern. "He's English. As much I know. Him or someone else?" The pace is set to an imperative speed. Passing by the tele a rude gesture is given to it with his hand. "We have... many dead coming in and hopefully... well I dunno." He isn't even entirely certain if making it back here is even a good thing. "I need help with the dispenser." To what extent he doesn't elaborate.
The Martyr's brows knit, "Not Marc. I remember Marc from the skinny dipping. I mean a stranger. I showed him how to get food and explained the basics. He's decided to call himself Boots for now." He stretches his long legs and keeps up handily enough.
The Rogue arches an eyebrow tilting his head, "Boots is good as any I suppose." His jaw sets and the thoughtful look returns. It's the look of a man looking for the angle. Glancing to the side as they enter the modest commissary he asks , as buttons get punched in, "Blank Slate then? No life before? No memory?" He sighs shaking his head. "They seem to be on fad with that. Not alright t'do to a guy. Wonder if that means people are getting replaced." The South African's mind seems to be running with the vocal track now. Also? This is a blot of bacon and a lot of alcohol he's punching in to replicate. "They ran the boats. On the island. Predictably it did not go well." He just rolls his eyes to the ceiling shaking his head. "Ran told them. They didn't listen. Poor bloody bastards."
The Martyr says, “No life before. No memory. An accent a bit like yours with less slang. Very dark skin and muscular even though he dresses sort of nerdy." His eyes go wide, "Oh shit! I hope not! Or should I hope not? I can't tell!" He shakes his head no. "It's part of the plan. The idea was to try to distract the fish people things with boats and fireworks so they don't attack the people doing the unraveling ritual. They aren't trying to escape. They're just supposed to attract the fish people then run so Sonya's team won't have to deal with the fish people and Mahoney all at once while they are in Mahoney's hole."”
The Rogue gives the Martyr a look of regret, "Well... it worked. All three parts of our plan seem to be working well and going a bit upside down on us. It's why I need you. W e can't worry about that because if we start fretting our boys? Yeah we gonna be in for some irreparable madness. Which is why we," he gestures to the both of them, "Are going to help them by making a fekkin buffet already ready and a fekking drink for every bloody one of them because this is some kekked up mess." He winces, "And Ethan's heading into the tunnels and apparently hallucinating. Colorado's hallucinating and this whole thing get tossed I won't be surprised. So. A homecoming, as harrowing as it is? May help because I don't know about you, friend, but sitting still is not my forte."
The Martyr nods, "We'll want lots of single malt and vodka. Vegetarian things in case some of them come back vegetarian. Lots of mixers. Pie is for comfort, so maybe lots of different types of pies. Maybe not... too much pork. The last thing I smelled when I died was roasting pork and ozone and some of them were there when we died."
The Rogue pauses and at the idea of bacon, holding up a piece he looks at it, the back of his arm and sighs popping it in his mouth. "Ya know... you have a point here." Bright blue-grey eyes narrow at Finn-ish and he adds, "You just ruined bacon for me, chum. Phenomenal. Though, I reckon a good sum of that is my fault I suppose." He sighs and switches out to sliders. "How's Boots holding up?"
The Martyr looks relieved. "I'm sorry about that." But he had to think of Danny, Scott, and Ethan stumbling out of sigiled doors still traumatized, to discover the strong smell of pig flesh. He shudders. "He's going to experiment with home tattooing, I think to see if his body resets. he says he found live deer somewhere in here? I don't know. He knows African and European place names, but not American ones, which fits with the accent. He's... weirdly buoyant? I think the reality may not have entirely sunk in, but he does seem to like the food."
The Rogue says, “Tell him it will. Haircuts did. Second degree burns. Hand sliced with glass. Sleeping in someone else's fekking room. All resets." He's bitter on that one. Still the note of someone else knowing something familiar to him catches him up with interest. "See that?" he tosses the bacon aside and taking the tiny burger instead as they are processed putting another in Martyr's hand, "That interests me. That interests me greatly." He considers and tilts his head from one side to the other really considering this first, "Tell Boots, if you see hm before I may? I'll help. Maybe between us we can find something maybe more familiar. Try to figure anything out."”
The Martyr touches his arm very lightly, "I'm sorry about the room thing." He looks down, imagining the feeling all too well despite not having crossed the Addit's threshold. He nods, "I think it would help if you spoke to him just generally. He's interested in figuring things out and there are way too many basic questions I don't have answers to. I'm simply too new to be much help. Having someone with similar references could help him orient better too. He's really nice if a little odd."
The Rogue looks to his arm studying the hand on it for a moment, but doesn't brush it off. It's his nature, it seems, that there's always some trace question; just a bit too guarded. "We are working at figuring that out." Still he lets the gesture pass with study and without complaint. His answer holds far more warmth than his curiosity, "Yeah, those arriving now-now?" the emphasis being on the present, "I fear em being caught up with the immediate aftermath of the bloodsport paying out for...whoever is watching this. Still, everyone needs a hand up. Can't pretend it's sunshine and roses. Can't pretend this isn't scary as hell to wake with no memory and not know why either."
The Martyr nods, "That I know too well. I had no idea where I was or what was going on." He starts carrying things to the table. "I really did think I might have gone mad, you know. Boots has posited he is in a coma, but seems to agree that acting as it's it real makes sense. Do we... know how many of them left back there are new like me?"
The Rogue starts loading as much as he can onto a tray and postulates, "It might have been easier to do this in the whatever room, but if they want to go back to their own refuge... well I guess this is it, hmm?" At the question of 'how many' the concerned look grows. "I dunno. I've been walking the hall. Seeing what ... space clears. If the doors go blank like, "While it pains him to say he states the truth, "like Addie's did." Painful but honest truth.
"So far I think... mostly the same. I think I found Nolan's...well Ethan's door I know belonged to Nolan which is-" so weird. "Scott's door hasn't moved. It's all I really got to go by. I think I figured out Julian's and Marc's but they're alive. We did lose Danica and Ozzy and Derek on the tele from how it looked. Wanted to have something for them when they get back."
The Martyr looks at him with sympathy and alarm, "I don't know whose doors are whose of those who aren't here yet, except for Danny's.... Which is Scott's? And Christine's? And Emily? And Laine's? Do you know Derek, Paige, Danica, and Oz's?"
The Rogue admits, "Just Scott's really. It's generally where I spent the sum of my time before all this happened. Derek's is the easiest to find as it has the most scribbles on the door." The rest? He shakes his head. "Never seen Christine before she was the inside boss. What I think we should be doing? Counting the rooms. See if those stay consistent. See if they have capacity. I'm wondering how much is changing we are taking for granted."
The Martyr's eyes go wide, "That's really clever! I really wish we could take notes. It makes me itch not to have everything where I can reference it."
The Rogue winks back with a hint of a smile, "Yeha. It's a bad habit of mine." Still there's the carrying of the tray back to start arranging glasses in some manner, and tiny burgers brought out and slowly turning the common area into a makeshift drunken thanksgiving. "Small journals might work. Champ...okay Scott and I thought a small journal might stay. Not tried past a reset yet."
The Martyr says, “So maybe a single sheet or a marginal notation in a book? I am trying to learn people's other names. Scott is Champ. I've forgotten Misty, Bastian, and Max's already. Everything's a bit blurry from that conversation. I'm.. still getting used to this not quite Finn body, though it's getting better.”
The Rogue considers that statement and helpfully offers, "Others call him Fizz. Scott that is. Bastian is almost always some semblance of Sebastian from what I can tell. Colorado is always Colorado. Max... don't think ever chose. Julian? He refuses to take a name not his."
The Martyr smiles crookedly. "I like Fizz for Scott. Bastian and Colorado. Julian... that makes sense." He turned down Finn after all as a kind of lie for all he loved being him. "I have... no idea who is coming out of Danny's door."
The Rogue chuckles in spite of how much thought he is presently putting into damage control. "Eeeh most do for him. Julian I'm worried about. His eyes are open though. He gets it. Sill, doesn't mean anything's manageable. Mark my words, Finn-ish, you want to get ahead you just have to play the game better than the one making the rules for it And right now? Well... dying? That's harrowing, bru. Surviving? Worse."
The Martyr starts arranging various glasses for drinks around the bottles on the table. He nods, "I hadn't really thought there was anything after death really, you know? I definitely hadn't expected anything like this." His voice goes soft, "I've been watching them a lot. On the TV. I didn't think realistically about after at all. For them or for us. Not really. Just about the immediate goals and the long term after we survive this goals. I didn't picture them mourning us or us mourning them. It was simpler when death was the end."
The Rogue holds out a hand as if and there it is. "Makes it twice as important for those wwho would be forgotten in the fine details. We've both got people to look after, and right now? Well... it's all we can do but be ready when they get bcak or... fuck if I know what other than hope they make it back at all." A hand slaps Martyr on the shoulder, "Then we find Boots. See if he's alright because it's better than standin still."
The Martyr says, “His door is the one with the tsunami warning and the surfboard. Boots, I mean.”
The Rogue says smoothly, "Eish, then we'd better bring the suntan lotion." Seems as good logic as any to the Earl of Errant Possessions.
The Martyr throws his head back and laughs. At least he still has a sense of humor.