ArchivedLogs:Risk
| Risk | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2017-08-10 "Welp, this a clusterfrak." |
| Location
<BOM> House of Leaves - Ascension Island | |
A small log cabin halfway between the main clearing and the beach, this little lodge is nestled alongside a twist in the stream. A large mulberry tree by the water has had a tire swing hung down over the creek; its branches seem in occasional need of pruning for how they butt up against the side of the cabin. Inside, the cabin is small and neat. Its entry room is a small sitting space, an eclectic host of artwork hanging on the walls. It holds an old but very comfortable black leather couch, a sunny yellow throw rug in front of the fireplace, a pair of large bookshelves on the back wall, a small oak coffee table in front of the sofa. A little dining table along the left side wall stands next to a window; pushed up against the wall, it has room for only three chairs. There's a tiny kitchenette off in the back. The right wall has a door leading to the bedroom. Its queen-sized bed is usually covered in an abundance of pillows and blankets, bright yellow and dark blue. A desk stands against the window, often littered with books and notes. The bathroom is small, tiled in pale stone, with a claw-footed bathtub. It smells homey in here right now. Warm fresh baked bread, coffee percolating in the kitchenette. Bright morning sun streaming through the windows, curtains open wide. Regan did not bake the bread, which is probably why she actually looks pleased as she bites into a thick slice spread with butter and jam. "So we'll have access to the schematics? A running list of the guards? There are --" She frowns deeply as she settles into a chair with her plate and a coffee. "A lot of Sentinels." B is lying belly-down on the rug, a large mug of coffee (totally a balanced breakfast!) in hir hands. The prominent ridge of hir brow lifts, and she shrugs a shoulder. "I've got the layout, but am I being /assigned/ to this mission? I was getting ready to map the prison Sentinels more thoroughly but honestly finding it hard to care right now if she rots in jail forever. There are so many ways my energy could be more useful to you than wasting it on that --" A slight hesitation. "Harpy," she ultimately finishes, a little more prim. Scramble is taking up less space on the couch than usual, sporting a fitted lavender tee that reads 'We're All Mad Here' in fanciful cursive and tight black jeans that lace down the outseams. She has a plate in her lap, her bread is liberally covered with /pesto/, and she's working her way through a tall glass of orange juice that may or may not be spiked. "Welp," she says, after a brief silence in the room, "this a clusterfrak. /That/ I can deal with, but I ain't about fighting through a DHS prison full of Sentinels to grab someone who might not even come with us." She sets down her orange juice. "Getting shot to death is a bit risky for her pregnancy." "Just so I'm clear," Blithely presumptuous, Natalie is taking up all the space that Scramble /isn't/, sprawled out lengthwise across the rest of the cushions with one leg hooked over Scramble's knee and her head braced on an armrest, "we are talking about sending folks into a place teeming with Sentinels and wired to neuter us all, for someone who explicitly told Ion she wasn't expecting a rescue and refused to participate in any plan that risks her pregnancy?" Her eyebrows are lifting. Just before she sits up in order to pilfer a bite of Scramble's toast. Clad in a simple white linen sun dress, Isra is perched on the other arm of the couch, beside Scramble. Her skin is a subtly shimmering gray accented with swirling patterns of blue, like stone view through clear water. One of her wings--their membranes an uncannily reflective silver that ripples as she moves like the surface of a lake, her thick talons and horns patterned like dark, damp wood--is draped over the back of the couch and the other mantled to shield her eyes from the light streaming in through the window. "I would not hesitate for the danger to myself, but frankly I do not see how we can do this without Ion and B." She takes a long sip from her NASA travel mug. "Even with them, a physical rescue attempt at such a facility seems exceptionally risky for /all/ parties, and with the rescuee so risk averse..." Her pointed ears press back flat against her hairless skull. Regan exhales, slow. Takes a slower sip of her coffee. "Exclusively a volunteer mission," she assures B. And then is quiet, fingers curling tighter at her mug. It is possibly subconscious that the sweep of her gaze around the room lingers a beat longer on Dusk than the others. Fetched up against a wall beneath the open windows, Dusk looks more ready for bed than a meeting, shirtless and in pajama pants -- the sunglasses throw the look off, a bit. From behind them his brows hike up when Regan looks at him. "I can't shut down the grid /or/ the Sentinels without B." One rippling water-detailed wing lifts, falls. "And I'm down to help where it makes sense, but I'm not signing on for a suicide mission. Especially in light of Ion's visit. It's literally not possible to plan a no-risk escape -- the stress it'd put on her body alone is high risk already. And hell if I'm going in just to get bitched at and leave." "In another couple months," B points out casually, "this will all be an academic discussion and Ion can go get her." Frown. "Assuming he's still willing, which is a big if." "Mmm." Just a mild hum of acknowledgment. Regan's forefinger taps against her mug, a small nod briefly given to the commentary from around the room. "This problem requires further consideration, I think. {Thank you all for your time.}" A deep frown has settled into the lines of her brow, and doesn't seem likely to lift soon. | |
