maureen robinson (
coefficiently) wrote in
silentspringlogs2024-02-13 09:57 pm
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[open] CAPTAIN'S LOG 001
Who: Maureen Robinson + YOU!
When: February
Where: Various (noted in prompts)
Open/Closed: Open
Applicable Warnings: TDM Warnings apply; anything additional that comes up will be noted in the subject line.
→HAVEN STREET, BLOCKADED (smoke gets in your eyes)
→AROUND SWEETWATER, POST-BLOCKADE
→MARJORIE'S NEOCOLONIAL (everybody's somebody's fool)
→WILDCARD
When: February
Where: Various (noted in prompts)
Open/Closed: Open
Applicable Warnings: TDM Warnings apply; anything additional that comes up will be noted in the subject line.
→HAVEN STREET, BLOCKADED (smoke gets in your eyes)
It's a problem not being able to get to the so-called 'Sector 1.' It's less to do with the food situation—dry cereal and canned food may not exactly shake out to a particularly luxurious lifestyle, but there are worse things—, and entirely to do with a question of power.
Half way through the week, Maureen stuffs her rucksack full of miscellaneous foodstuffs raided from the kitchen, a handful of books scavenged from the household's shelves, and the tube of toothpaste from the master bath's medicine cabinet ('I'm taking this,' she'd informed Jupe, standing in the doorway of the living room with the tube in hand and the rucksack over her shoulder. 'There's baking soda in the kitchen.'), and sets off through the neighborhood.
The last time she'd been driven from the house in search of supplies, it'd been laying down snow and she'd had a so-called husband and a dog at her heels. This time when Maureen shows up on the doorstep of various neighbors, she's alone. There's smoke on the air. She has a scarf wrapped prudently around the bottom half of her face, but pulls it down when the door is answered to say—
"Can I ask for a favor?"
→AROUND SWEETWATER, POST-BLOCKADE
Maybe it's the clear air, the smoke from the fires having at last drifted away, that inspires her to clamber into the household car and go for a drive. After all, after a week stuck inside the blockaded 'sector', just buzzing around from point a to point b is a thrilling luxury.
Or maybe it's work. Certainly there's a distinct air of a woman on a mission about Maureen over the next week as she appears around town: at the hardware store, making doe-eyed apologies to the clerk helping her decipher her 'husband's shopping list', and at the library where she casually cycles through whatever city planning documents may or may not be on file, or can be found copying down the Morse Code alphabet. And here, late one evening in a diner, where Maureen has a table in the back to herself. She'd finished her dinner some time ago. By the patina of the coffee cup's interior she's been here long enough to have been on the receiving end of more than her fair share of refills.
But she needs to work something out and the confines of the house on Haven street make her want to lay down and stare at the ceiling instead of doing this: presiding over a series of little notes, presently scribbling calculations in a little booklet.
→MARJORIE'S NEOCOLONIAL (everybody's somebody's fool)
She's bad at this. Not the getting dressed part. That part she can and has done. Maybe the hair isn't quite right (who the hell designed curlers?), but the rest of 1961 house cocktail party chic Maureen has more or less managed to achieve thanks to the contents of a closet she's had almost no hand in stocking. It's the pretending part that doesn't work. It hangs uneasily about her shoulders like an ill-fitting coat. Smiles that are too briskly produced, and evaporate a shade too quickly off her face. She doesn't drink the right amount; she drinks her cocktail too quickly and has nothing to do with her hands afterward, loathe to pick up a second (overly strong, Jesus Christ) drink to replace it too soon lest it either somehow be socially unacceptable or just because the idea of being more off her game than she already is makes all the little hairs on the back of her neck that she's failed to capture in her up-do stand on end.
And when she feels moved to step outside, the excuse she gives is 'Smoke break'. It only occurs to her after she's standing in the February cold, wrapped tight in the coat wrestled back out of wherever Marjorie had stowed her guests' outerwear, that no one really cares about smoking indoors.
But the air is refreshingly biting, and the sky overhead dark and full of stars. Maureen lets herself stand on the little shadowed back step for longer than she should, her head tipped back so she can observe the sky. There is Jupiter—a bright dot in the blanket of stars—, and Auriga the chariot driver, and Canis Major, the big dog chasing Orion, with Procyon burning bright in its lesser sibling.
→WILDCARD
[ooc: Prose preferred, but brackets is also aokay with me so if you prefer to use that then go ahead and I'll reply in kind. Nothing here hooking you and/or want a custom starter? Hit me up via PM and we can plot something out.]
→closed to jupe
She should probably fix that, Maureen thinks.
'I think I can handle closing a few curtains,' says John Robinson from inside the television set.
Maureen twitches awake. When it comes to sitting up in the dark from the narrow twin bed in the house's second bedroom, she goes about it slowly. Presses the heels of her hands to her eyes. Rubs her forehead with her fingertips. It's been nearly a week since the video of the too-familiar Indian woman and her baby, the infant's fat hand being waved playfully out at the viewer, had randomly appeared. Apparently it's lodged itself firmly enough in her thoughts to start plaguing her subconscious. Probably fine.
Also probably fine: the faintest glow of light flickering in under the edge of the bedroom door, notable only for the darkness of the room otherwise. But she can do something about one these things, and not the other.
Which is how Maureen comes to lay a hand on Jupe's shoulder, making to rouse him from where he's asleep in front of the tv. It's late. The broadcast has changed over to shapeless, mute static. The dog is asleep on the rug at his feet.]
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marjorie's neocolonial
So, when he spots Maureen stepping outside, he follows. His eyes go to the stars immediately; it's actually a surprise to see she's looking, too, but a welcome one.
"Nice view, huh?"
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Ah. It's the...astrophysicist? Engineer? The woman from the far-flung future, according to her testimony at the dinner party. Numbers never actually introduced himself at the party--mostly because he was too preoccupied with ranting about a potential revenge plot against Norman Pollock. Numbers raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. He's dressed casually, wearing a blue button-up and slacks and shoes inside the house--which might be an egregious sin for some.
"Maybe." His tone is polite and subdued. It's definitely a contrast to his previous behavior at the party. "What is it?"
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marjorie's neocolonial
The novelty of these social gatherings is starting to wear thin on Margaret. The Christmas party was alright, if a bit strange, and her New Years celebration was enjoyable up until the point where she suddenly became tormented by strange visions. It's here, at this particular party, surrounded by a saccharine celebration of love, that she realizes what's wrong.
She misses the 4077th. She never got to say good-bye to them, never gave them well wishes or told them "let's keep in touch". And though she would never miss the times when the unit was threatened by enemy--or allied--fire, these celebrations didn't feel the same without them. Here, she always felt like she had to hold herself back among polite company, straining to smile as they spoke about their adoring husbands.
She's desperate to find an out--so when she sees Maureen go outside, she decides to join her. For a few moments, Margaret quietly stands beside her.
"Too loud in there for you?" she asks, breaking the silence. Her eyes momentarily flit upwards, towards the stars.
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