Log:The Morning After
First thing in the morning, if such a thing even exists in the strange place these people find themselves trapped in, there is some noise. It sounds like something rolling down the hallway. Then it zips by again with some alacrity. Then there is a crash, an audible "Oof!" knocked out of someone, and some low laughter.
Laughter that the woman that was Maya Chevalier-Colby would know in an instant. Laughter she spent most of a lifetime with. Wincing and strange, yes, but more familiar than could be imagined.
At the threshold of the kitchen, Rod - or whatever his name is - is rubbing his big forehead above the right eye. His lips are spread in mirth as his eyes are squeezed shut in pain. Beside him is an overturned skateboard with its wheels still spinning.
He is wearing thin sweatpants and a shirt with the sleeves cut off of it. Grey and black, respectively.
The Explorer would be in her room when all of this started. Awake, like at least some of the others, but not having wandered out of that room that strangely suits her, despite her having had no say in its decor.
Staring at the floor.
Specifically, that spot on the floor over by the door, where he'd bled out and died in her arms the morning before. That spot that's absolutely spotless, now. It's as if none of it had even happened. True, the others she'd spoken to after the fact reassured her that such would be the case -- that everything would go back to the way it was, the very next morning. Including him. He'd wake, alive and well, because nobody actually dies here. Not with any sense of permanence.
So, perhaps, hearing his laugh outside should come as something of a shock. In a realistic world, that would be the case. But she's already seen the pristine, perfectly clean floor. His laugh is just... further confirmation that what the others had told her is really real. Swallowing hard, she wraps herself in a thick robe, cinches it tightly around her waist as if fluffy terry could somehow serve as armor, and picks up that same spyglass from the day before. It's held loosely in hand as she walks silently out into the communal area.
The far from professional skateboarders face lights up as the woman steps into his view. "Hey!" The man that should be twice dead is very much alive. He rubs his forehead more vigorously for a moment as if to make up for ending the act before he otherwise would. He gets to his feet, blinks unevenly, and shakes off his head like he is trying to wake up from dozing.
"Check this out!" He uses one Sketchers-covered foot to kick the skateboard over, and then he hops on. He makes it a few feet before doing a little hop with the board and landing. There is wobbling and arms out for balance, but he pulls it off with all the style of a five year old amateur. "Neat, eh?" He turns around a couple times to face her once more and stops. He steps off and stomps one end of the board to try and kick it up into his hand, but it doesn't quite work. After a second try, he gives the thing a skeptical look and then just reaches down and picks it up.
Offering the board out with both hands, he gives the robed woman a big grin. "Wanna try?"
Maya. In her own mind, at least, that's still who she thinks she is. So, Maya simply stares at him. Not in the wide-eyed anime girl sort of way. Not startled, or shocked, or even nominally flabbergasted. She wears no expression at all, as a matter of fact. It's a good dozen seconds or so before she blinks, even.
Then she takes a single step backward onto her right foot, pivots, and starts to walk back the way she came.
The stare is met with a smile. Eyebrows go up in silent question as seconds tick by. The skateboard is moved slightly in the air to make it more enticing. Aaaand she starts to leave. "Heywhoahey!" The man goes grab her arm and stops short. "Don't go." There is a brief pause before the idea hits and he adds with the upbeat demeanor that she used to know, "Lemme make you breakfast! Pretty sure we got a waffle iron here, right? I mean, I know I always fuck up your hashbrowns, but I can do waffles." He scoots over to her doorway and leans against the frame as his ankles cross. "I can rock some waffles," he says with all the smugness, nodding, and suggestive eyebrow movements of a man bragging about being God's gift to tape measurers.
She'd left her door open. Why shouldn't she? None of the things in that room are truly hers, after all. The one and only object that carries any level of personal significance for her is the paper ring wrapped around her finger. And besides, even if someone did bother to pilfer anything from her room, it'd just wind up right back where it belonged the following morning.
So when she reaches her doorway, the Explorer pauses when he sidles up to cockily lounge against the frame and entice her with breakfast fare. That same expressionless visage is turned up to him, her gaze is held upon his for a beat, and then she looks down at That Spot on the floor. With her focus still thusly downcast, she voices a simple request in a dulled tone.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't beat your skull in with this spyglass for what you put me through yesterday. And make it fucking good." Only then does she look back around and up to him, with an eyebrow raised slightly and expectantly.
"Because you'd dent your spyglass," he says that word a little strangely, as if he is repeating her use of it without knowing exactly what to call the thing, "on my hard-ass head, silly. And you'd probably mess up your shoulder again. I mean, I know it's not messed up now, but in a couple decades that thing's gonna be a mess, babe. Why get a headstart on that?"
He knocks on the open door and walks in. The skateboard is tossed over to the corner where it strangely fits in with all the travel gear and maps. "You know, maybe you should just kill yourself," he says in that manner that might seem serious to anyone that doesn't know him. "I was having a day, and I did it and it was like-" He blinks and widens his eyes as his head leans back. "Whoa. Like... whoa." He looks at her as his smile returns, "And now I feel sooo good. OR." He squats down in front of her and says, "You can knight me with the Sword of Spyglassia and I will make m'lady some Rrrroyal Waffles ala Whatever Berries and Cream We Find." His brogue is still on point.
He looks up at her and asks, "So what do you say, champ?" With some grunting, effort, and a wobble of arms that just barely keeps him from falling over, he gets into a kneel before her and bows his head.
He lived with her for a good long while, before they both woke up from that shared dream and found themselves... here. He knows her. Maybe even better, in some respects at least, as she knows herself. Like the way that she has every cat in the history of the universe beat when it comes to curiosity. Or the way she refuses to kiss him for at least two hours after he's eaten black olives, unless teeth brushing gets involved.
Or the way, when she gets really, really furious about something or at someone, she doesn't scream. Or throw things. Or any of the things people might normally expect from an incensed female.
She gets quiet. She gets distant. It's not that she shuts down emotionally, just that she internalizes it. Barely reacts to anything outwardly, doesn't say much, doesn't allow her features to express much.
Which is why the fact that she flinches, hard, when he suggests that she should try killing herself because apparently it's all kinds of awesome... is a tell on a massive scale.
If he lifts his bowed head enough to even glance up at her, he'll see the color rising in her cheeks, the chest rising and falling with quickened breaths, the murderously flashing green eyes.
"Fiiiine." He lifts his head and rolls his eyes as if she is overreacting, when in truth he's underreacting. Classic Rod. Or whoever he is. He backpedals towards the door as he taunts her. It harkens back to the second year of the marriage when they got really good at yelling about things. "I'm going to go make fantastic waffles and maybe even undercook some delicious bacon and have a glass of awesome bourbon and see if my wang is bigger, smaller, or the same size as it was the last time I was young and hot. So youuuu just keep being mad, and come find me when your ridiculously beautiful ass wants to figure out if we should work together to figure this place the fuck out 'cause we're the most unstoppable team that ever-"
He stops in the doorway, and that demeanor falters hard. It spreads like a crack through glass after impact. "Fuck," he says as he turns towards the kitchen. As he's walking that way, he mutters something too lowly to be heard.
"Just tell the dispensary cubby what you want and it will give it to you." Does this place even have a kitchen? She hasn't explored the Facility much, as yet. Which is pretty fucking telling, since she's The Explorer. But there may very well be a distinct lack of such things as waffle irons or skillets within which to undercook bacon. All she witnessed the day before was a screen being tapped, a few vocal clarifications or details given, and then the cubby slid open and everything the individual wanted was right there. Exactly as desired.
The door to her room clicks shut just after that indecipherable mutter is heard, if not comprehended.