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01 ☢ disappear into the trees
Dec. 1st, 2014 09:26 pm( spam, cut for reading lists. )
spam } infirmary
[The second thing he does is go to the infirmary. He has already made his request, packed away in a canvas back thick enough to obscure its contents. It only takes a few moments to make his way to the infirmary; once he's there, he finds himself calmed, if only minutely, by its clean lines and relative efficiency. It reminds him of Shirley's friendly bustle. He thinks, if he can just find someone willing to listen and ask a minimum number of questions, he'll be fine.]
[Maybe he ought to have brought a brochure. But he has what he has, and so he goes looking for someone in charge.]
spam } open
[He happens across the art therapy room almost by accident, as he's tripping up and down the stairs trying to get a feel for the place. Once he gets a sense for it, what this room is for, he feels a bit like going in would be intruding on a place not meant for him, but he can't help himself. It's full of all the tools and materials too expensive or impractical to keep in his room, a smorgasbord of paints and pastels and clays. Before long he's situated himself at an easel by the door, canvas spread in front of him, and sketching out the beginnings of a portrait in violet outlines.]
[The library is his next time-consuming stop, after he's washed all the paint off his hands, of course. It only takes him a minute to get lost in one of the corridors connecting the reference to the nonfiction section, and he wanders helplessly in near-darkness for a moment before emerging, inexplicably, by the movies. They're in all kinds of formats, some totally alien to him. He wonders what his dad would say about living in a post-BluRay environment and then, after a pang in the general region of his heart, decides not to think about it anymore. Instead he spreads a selection of films out on the nearest table and tries to pick one to watch for the evening. Assistance from the peanut gallery is welcome.]
[At last he finds himself on the deck, where he finds himself both awed and nauseated by the expansive sky - and really, it's only a sky because that's the most reassuring way to mentally categorize it. It's actually space, which he is in, and in all honesty he could do with sitting down right now. Fortunately there's a bench nearby. He collapses onto it and hunches his shoulders against the encroaching everything, counting the seconds until he can in good conscience retreat back into his room.]
voice } open
[A few hours later, safely ensconced in his cabin once again, he feels less homesick, more equipped to address everyone all at once - which seems to be the thing to do. Not face to face, though. He isn't completely ready for that.]
Hi. [. . . yes.] I'm Kieren. New. Thought I'd say hi.
I've never actually. Been to space, not sure if that puts me in the minority or not, but. It's beautiful here. [Terrifying. But beautiful.]
spam } infirmary
[The second thing he does is go to the infirmary. He has already made his request, packed away in a canvas back thick enough to obscure its contents. It only takes a few moments to make his way to the infirmary; once he's there, he finds himself calmed, if only minutely, by its clean lines and relative efficiency. It reminds him of Shirley's friendly bustle. He thinks, if he can just find someone willing to listen and ask a minimum number of questions, he'll be fine.]
[Maybe he ought to have brought a brochure. But he has what he has, and so he goes looking for someone in charge.]
spam } open
[He happens across the art therapy room almost by accident, as he's tripping up and down the stairs trying to get a feel for the place. Once he gets a sense for it, what this room is for, he feels a bit like going in would be intruding on a place not meant for him, but he can't help himself. It's full of all the tools and materials too expensive or impractical to keep in his room, a smorgasbord of paints and pastels and clays. Before long he's situated himself at an easel by the door, canvas spread in front of him, and sketching out the beginnings of a portrait in violet outlines.]
[The library is his next time-consuming stop, after he's washed all the paint off his hands, of course. It only takes him a minute to get lost in one of the corridors connecting the reference to the nonfiction section, and he wanders helplessly in near-darkness for a moment before emerging, inexplicably, by the movies. They're in all kinds of formats, some totally alien to him. He wonders what his dad would say about living in a post-BluRay environment and then, after a pang in the general region of his heart, decides not to think about it anymore. Instead he spreads a selection of films out on the nearest table and tries to pick one to watch for the evening. Assistance from the peanut gallery is welcome.]
[At last he finds himself on the deck, where he finds himself both awed and nauseated by the expansive sky - and really, it's only a sky because that's the most reassuring way to mentally categorize it. It's actually space, which he is in, and in all honesty he could do with sitting down right now. Fortunately there's a bench nearby. He collapses onto it and hunches his shoulders against the encroaching everything, counting the seconds until he can in good conscience retreat back into his room.]
voice } open
[A few hours later, safely ensconced in his cabin once again, he feels less homesick, more equipped to address everyone all at once - which seems to be the thing to do. Not face to face, though. He isn't completely ready for that.]
Hi. [. . . yes.] I'm Kieren. New. Thought I'd say hi.
I've never actually. Been to space, not sure if that puts me in the minority or not, but. It's beautiful here. [Terrifying. But beautiful.]
